


Emergency Measures

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: Amusing Shibara [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Decepticon Justice Division - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:18:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 43,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ambulon's life is in Pharma's lack of hands.  The D.J.D. doesn't spare traitors, but they might bargain over this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shibara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shibara/gifts).



**Title:** Emergency Measures  
 **Warning:** Warnings: anything and everything, because it is the Decepticon Justice Division. They specialize in torture, which I doubt was ever consensual. Also warnings for my sense of humor, because it has a habit of inappropriate timing.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW, More Than Meets the Eye  
 **Characters:** Decepticon Justice Division, Ambulon, Pharma  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Amusement for Shibara, written between actual writing projects. Ambulon is on the List, and he gets captured. Pharma -- post dehanding and Delphi, of course -- makes a bargain with the DJD that if Ambulon puts on a nice enough show, the DJD…well, they wouldn’t _spare_ him, but they’d postpone horribly torturing him to death.

Original Prompt: _"I'd like to see a mech, facing torture and death, bargain his way out through faking enthusiastic sex -pretending to want it, doing anything to not die. Actually, what I'd like to see is the aftermath, where somebody reassures the mech that it was okay to do whatever they had to for survival."_

 

**[* * * * *]**

****Part 1** **

**[* * * * *]**

While on-site work was well enough on deserted battlefields and forgotten worlds, sticking around on the station after hunting down their prey would have invited interruptions. It’s not that the Decepticon Justice Division felt particularly threatened by the pretend-Prime’s group of incompetent Autobots, but getting rid of the pesky do-gooders might have resulted in distraction from the real goal: adequate punishment of the traitor. Distraction could lead to their victim getting enough leeway to off himself, or even one of the D.J.D. members getting too hasty out of excitement. It just wouldn’t do to truncate punishment.

No, they intended execution to last a long, long time. Troublesome interruptions from the crew of the _Lost Light_ could not be permitted. Besides, when word of the snatch-and-disappear act Vos had pulled on a crowded neutral space station leaked out, Decepticon traitors throughout the galaxy would discover new fear. Not even the Galactic Council and its snooty assumption of authority could stop the Decepticon Justice Division. It would do to remind the traitors who’d run far away from Cybertron and her war that they weren’t safe from the _Peaceful Tyranny_ and her murderous crew.

All in all, the only one not happy to hit and run the station without a fuss was Ambulon himself. Not that the D.J.D. cared about his opinion. They even gagged him to keep him from giving it at an unholy volume level after Kaon complained of the noise.

The once-Decepticon medic huddled in the corner of the -- it was -- he couldn’t -- no no, this couldn’t be _happening_ \--

It refused to process. His wrists were bound securely behind his back to his ankles, and an inhibitor claw kept him from accessing all his functions. It was the inability for his mind to accept the horror that prevented him from thinking about where he was in common terminology, however. He was -- okay. He could do this. His mind broke it down and reassembled it a slightly different way. He was in a box-shaped area consisting of a locked door, four walls, a ceiling, a floor, and an uncountable number of nasty tools of scariness hung everywhere in-between.

That…wasn’t any better a way to think about it.

Frag his life, frag his life, frag his --

The door unlocked with a undramatic click, and Ambulon’s internal mantra turned to a simple litany consisting of _‘oh’_ and _‘Primus’_ in varying order as the massive bulk of Tesarus lumbered through. He knew it was Tesarus. Every Decepticon knew the members of the Decepticon Justice Division, current and past mechs. There were only five names to remember, after all. Five names flavored with terror so deep traitors to the Cause couldn’t say them aloud without stammering. The current D.J.D. membership had broadcasted enough executions that Ambulon knew exactly what this incarnation of Tesarus was capable of.

When the living grinder walked into a torture room, there wasn’t much question of what he was there for.

Ambulon had managed to inch his way into the corner, but there was no way in the Pit he could evade the hands reaching for him. One set of normal, if gigantic, arms would have been difficult enough to avoid even without the inhibitor claw making him sluggish, but it was the machine arms that got him. The triple prongs came at the ex-Decepticon and plucked him from the corner with ridiculous ease. Frantic squirming did nothing to stop the Decepticon. Compared to the grinder mech, the medic was weak and small.

He’d gotten too settled in his profession. Medics had many redundant systems, but their armor was relatively thin to make room for additional equipment. Ambulon hadn’t started out life as a medic, however. He’d joined the Autobots with combat-grade armor plating and no medical transformations. He still didn’t have the medical transformations -- he’d been saving up at Delphi for the operations to get his hands modified -- but he’d managed to shed most of the heavy armor folded underneath his outer shell. It’d deprived him of protection, but patients had stopped looking afraid of him when they found out about his past.

The extra bulk hadn’t been necessary, anyway. He wasn’t a warrior, whatever the combiner technology had been meant to make him into. It wasn’t like medics needed armor thick enough to protect a gestalt’s leg. The plan had been to get rid of the excess plating and eventually replace it with light equipment meant to fold up inside his outer casing. It wouldn’t be a full new altmode, but he’d been looking forward to being able to say he was a medical frametype, not a combat one. He’d gotten rid of each piece of the gestalt armor and felt relieved to be just himself with it gone.

What Ambulon wouldn’t give for the additional layers of armor back right now.

“Ambulon! Buddy. Pal.” The wide smile below the vivid red ‘X’ optical sensor on Tesarus’ face said that they were going to have _such_ fun together. “Good to see you. Been a while! It’s like you’ve been away from the Decepticons or something.” His machine arms held the bound Autobot in front of him as Tesarus busied himself undoing the statis cuffs.

Not that it helped Ambulon’s situation any, as the prongs held his arms against his sides. Kicking at the huge Decepticon holding him only provoked a hearty laugh.

“That tickles!” The smile widened, and machine prongs squeezed a warning.

Ambulon froze, throat tubes working nervously. The individual claspers were poking between plating seams, threatening to crumple the edges like tinfoil. He knew it was only a matter of time until the pain came no matter how he cooperated now, but he still stopped struggling. He’d do anything, scramble after any chance at all at pushing the inevitable off a few minutes more.

It _was_ inevitable. The Autobot hung limp in Tesarus’ grasp and stared at him in mute terror. The hands that had untied him ran up his side as if assessing his body. The medic’s hands were given special attention, boding not well at all for their futures. Ambulon didn’t have the built-in tools that he’d been saving up for, not yet, but his hands did have the additional sensor network installed already. Tesarus’ grin took on an almost giddy glee as he forced one small hand flat to get a good look at the palm. _Such_ fun, they would have.

He selected one finger and rolled it between his much larger digits. The jerking attempts by the Autobot to close his hand into a fist didn’t even move the finger in the grinder’s grip. Fun, fun, fun. Fun and games. Games like _’What Knuckle Will Give First?’_ were D.J.D. favorites, and always good for some betting.

Sounds were trying to get past the gag in the prisoner’s mouth. “What? You want to tell me how much you’ve missed us?” Tesarus tugged the finger lightly, testing. The pained jolt that went through the Autobot was informative. Maybe a round played by himself, before the others finished their duties and came down to join him? A game by himself: like Solitaire, only with more mangling and screams. “The Decepticons have missed **you** ,” he said idly, attention on the finger. He increased his pull a little. Hmm. The third knuckle, he thought. He’d stop at dislocating it, for now. “But that’s okay. We’ve got lots of time to catch up, now that we’ve caught you. Tarn’s planned out a welcome-back party just for you. We’ll be together for **days**.” Days and days of entertainment, just how the living grinder liked it.

More muffled sounds, smoothing out into a soft, pained keen. That third knuckle was going to give very soon, Tesarus could tell.

“What the -- !”

Yellow optics snapped to the door as the last person Ambulon had ever expected to hear, here or anywhere, stopped dead in his tracks just inside. Wide blue optics met his, resetting with shock. Wings flared wide, then slicked back as Pharma squared his shoulders. Automatic assumption of authority kicked in where surprise left the surgeon rattled, and Pharma straightened where he stood. Ambulon was -- or had been, anyway -- his employee. He acted the part even before his mind caught up with what he was seeing.

Shock turned immediately to a halfway recognizable expression Ambulon hadn’t seen enough on the jet’s face to identify as embarrassment, and the wrist that’d been used to open the door quickly tucked under folded arms. The missing hands were still obvious. The embarrassed expression turned to one of annoyance when Tesarus looked over at the surgeon, too, and Ambulon began to struggle again.

Hope _surged_ , painful as his abused finger. Pharma had betrayed his oaths to protect life above all else, shelter the wounded, and guide the weak. Pharma had betrayed the Autobots, and him, personally. Ambulon _knew_ that. He _knew_ that Pharma had loosed a plague meant to destroy everyone at Delphi. He knew exactly how little his ex-boss valued his life, since the mech had been completely prepared to trade it to save his own aft back at Delphi.

That didn’t stop a little chorus of Primes from singing in the ex-Decepticon’s head when he saw the jet. When someone was condemned to a slow, terrible, gruesome execution, that someone didn’t get picky about potential saviors.

“Hi, doc,” Tesarus said comfortably. Just chillin’ in the torture room getting ready to disassemble this traitor here. Nothing special goin’ on, nope. “What can I do you for?”

The casual greeting got an extremely irate look in return. “The lack of respect around here is astounding.”

For a mech whose face consisted of a red ‘X’ optical sensor and a wide smile, Tesarus still managed to look cheeky. “I could have said, ‘Hey doc, wanna f -- ‘”

“Shut up,” Pharma grumbled, finally entering the room. The door slid closed behind him. “And let him go.” He gestured shortly at his ex-employee, tucking his wrists back out of sight right afterward.

“Uh…no?” Tesarus gave the surgeon a puzzled look, smile falling to confusion. “No, I don’t think that’s what I wanna do at all. And you can’t have his hands, either. I’ve got **plans** for them,” he said, clearly relishing the words, and Ambulon’s high-pitched keen turned staccato as panic had the traitor’s fans erratically chopping the sound up. “Hush, you.” The machine arms shook his victim sternly. “You don’t get a say in this.”

So much for keeping his lack of hands out of sight. Pharma sighed and let his arms fall to his sides. “When Tarn said he’d found the next traitor on his infernal List, I hardly expected **you** ,” he hissed at the wide-opticked mech squirming in the Decepticon’s hold. “Do you have any idea what I did to keep you out of these maniacs’ clutches?”

“Not enough,” Tesarus informed the jet cheerfully. “Kept you safe for a while, though, didn’t it?” he asked his victim. “You probably thought we’d forgotten about you. Silly Ambulon. We never forget those on List.” His smile returned.

Ambulon bucked, legs flailing, as the machine arm jiggled him like energon goodies would pop out if shaken hard enough. He tried to call Pharma’s name through the gag. Help. Please help him. Oh, Primus. He -- hadn’t known about anything done to keep him safe at Delphi. He didn’t know what he thought about that, and it didn’t matter right this minute. All that mattered was that if the surgeon had done it once, he could do it again. Surely Pharma couldn’t abandon him to this monster!

The surgeon wasn’t looking at him, however. He’d strode over to the frighteningly accessorized table in the center of the room, and he seemed to be occupied examining it. There were a lot of different things to look over. Even without the built-in restraints, it’d be a captivating piece of equipment. The flyer ran his amputated stub along the fan of blades at the foot of the berth, appearing lost in thought. Ambulon tried unsuccessfully _not_ to think about that fan. The placement was just about right for sawing through a mech’s ankle joints if an unfortunate mech happened to be strapped down on that table. With individual blades instead of an actual saw blade, an already agonizing procedure would take far longer because the blades would dull halfway through. That was probably the point.

“What would be enough?”

The question was quiet and unexpectedly thoughtful. Tesarus was used to incoherent pleas, screamed offers, and outraged demands. The coolly professional tone caught him off-guard. It made him actually stop tormenting his victim and consider the question.

“Huh. I never really thought about it.” The living grinder cocked his head to the side and gave it some thought. “He **is** on the List. Nothing’s going to erase his name from that.”

“I’m not asking you about the List.” Pharma turned and leaned his hip against the horrid table. If he’d still had hands, he’d have thrown one up in a _’Well, of course’_ gesture. He settled for folding his arms again and sneering. Sneer #4: mild contempt and exasperation mashed into one. “I already know nothing I could offer would take him off it.” He grimaced. “Tarn made **that** abundantly clear.” His head shook, dismissing the idea, or perhaps the memory. “But there’s precedent for, ah, delay. It’s only a question of what’s enough to keep him...safe. For now.”

“What, like thrown into a cell? That could be fun for a while. I could poke him with things.” The idea seemed pleasing. Tesarus jiggled the traitor again. “Sharp, pointy things, heated hot enough to melt plating!”

Pharma’s main turbine snarled displeasure. “No! I mean safe as in not harmed, as in pain-free, as in -- I don’t know, collar and tag him and let him earn his keep somehow.”

“Ffft, ‘somehow.’ I can think of a few things he could do around the ship.” That was definitely a leer, not a smile, but his prisoner was far too rattled to focus and see that at the moment. “Yeah, alright. I could talk to Tarn about it, but you’re going to have to offer one Pit of a deal, doc.”

The medic’s optics were dark with hate and bad memories. “Tarn has no room to deny you this, considering how long he put claiming Ambulon off for the sake of his own **addiction** ,” Pharma said flatly. “Your leader delayed execution for personal gain. I’d say you’re allowed to do the same.”

The red optical ‘X’ lit bright with interest. “True…”

“As for what I’m offering.” The jet stood straight again. “What do you want?”

Ambulon shook his head, somewhat dizzy from all the shaking. What…what was going on? Were -- were they _bargaining_ over him?

They were.

“Not an option,” Pharma denied. “That’s not even on the table, and certainly not over one.”

“Aw, come on.” The gleeful grin had a greedy edge to it. “Just once? Tarn would let me borrow you…”

“I am not a -- a tool to be lent out!” the surgeon sputtered indignantly. “No! I refuse!”

Tesarus snorted, disappointment drooping his machine arms until Ambulon’s feet almost touched the floor. “Fine, fine. Frag, you’re a fussy little scraplet.”

The sputtering picked up. “I beg your pardon? I am no scraplet, you oversized can opener!” The jet’s wings flared out, and blue optics narrowed as he faced down the much larger mech. He even took a few steps forward as if he were about to lay into the Decepticon with a tirade to end all tirades. Sneer #7 (dangerous; ready to demote someone or about to transfer a problematic patient) was present and accounted for. “Get your interface drive out of your CPU before I reprogram you to frag the waste disposal system and -- “

Ambulon shrieked behind the gag as he was abruptly shoved bodily at the angry surgeon. “Kiss him,” Tesarus said from behind him, sounding like he’d just had the best and most brilliant idea ever.

Pharma, on the other missing hand, thought his idea spawned of the Pit. “I am not,” he spat, eyeing the frantic Autobot held in front of him, “going to kiss him.”

But now the living grinder had fixated on the idea, seeing the possibilities. The traitor was small, much smaller than he was and even shorter than Vos’ slender frame. Pharma stood head and shoulders above the other Autobot. The size difference was something Tesarus was used to, but when the shoulders had wings attached, well, seeing Pharma standing head and shoulders above Ambulon looked unexpectedly tantalizing. Flight frames were always a turn-on for most of the D.J.D., considering the fact that there’d never been a member with such a frame. Plus, Megatron was well-known to favor them, so -- yes. Seeing the flyer facing Ambulon, who himself had a transformation that made his shape slightly exotic…mmm.

The coloration alone was enough to stare at, now that Tesarus was looking. Autobot medical colors were kind of a kink among Decepticons. They represented aid and trust, meant to be located quickly and still, after all these eons of war, not the colors anyone shot at first. Decepticon medics came in every color, but they were also warriors. That usually didn’t apply outside of field medics among Autobots, so the true medics among the Autobots were rarely seen by Decepticons. The legendary care shown to patients by those single-function, elusive medics had turned them into something many Decepticons sought after..

Medic on medic action, white and red and primary blue. The ‘innocence’ of healing and help as a sexual fetish, fantasy made real? This idea got better and better!

“Kiss him,” Tesarus wheedled, “and I’ll give him a couple hours.”

The offer penetrated Pharma’s automatic refusal. Blue optics turned canny. “One kiss per three hours.”

“Two. No, wait.” The smile twisted darkly. “Naaaah. I want more than a kiss.” The noise behind the gag was screeping and tiny, shock and terror constricting Ambulon’s throat tubing around his vocalizer as he was pushed into his ex-boss’ chest. “Gimme a show, doc.”

“A show.” The Decepticon had managed to surprise him. Pharma reset his optics, then his vocalizer. “You can’t mean -- “

“’Face him,” Tesarus said, and the dark undertone came from the grating _whirr_ of his chest grinder coming online. “I want to see you two frag so hard you leave paint streaks on each other. Knot your cables. Swap coolant. Burn out your circuit breakers.” His vents were panting short bursts of hot air, and his torso-tunnel turned and turned. The ex-Decepticon in his grip writhed in utter panic as the rim scraped along the back of his helm. “You give me a show, doc, and he lives to see another day. Deal?”

His smile held a hint of madness. There were levels of sadistic desires that went beyond sanity, and Tesarus was indulging in one right now. Arousal permeated his electromagnetic field, but lust for violence saturated it as well. His hands made twitching grabbing motions, ready to seize the traitor and push him into his grinder. He was ready to hear the tearing sounds of metal and the agonized screams. Fun and games and Decepticon justice.

Pharma looked up at the mad ‘Con. His optics dropped slowly to the mech held before him. Ambulon stared back, desperate and trembling so hard his legs wouldn’t have supported him if the machine arms weren’t holding him up. The sounds coming from his former employee’s mouth dribbled pitifully from around the gag and leaked out of the corners as if Ambulon couldn’t help himself. They were the sounds of a torture victim. A dead mech walking.

Nothing the surgeon could do would save this poor spark in the end. Anything he could do would only heap humiliation on them both in return for a measly day before torture began anyway. Knowing Tesarus as he did, the bargain probably wouldn’t even hold as soon as the Decepticon’s short attention span blipped away. Was delaying Ambulon’s death worth what Pharma would have to do to buy those precious few hours?

An impartial observer might have noted that only Pharma’s hands were missing. The insignia on his chest and the colors he wore still remained.

“Deal,” the Autobot medic said evenly.

“Yes!”

The jet ignored the triumphant hiss and accompanying fist pump. His attention was on his ex-employee. One wrist stump rose slowly to brush along the gag strapped into Ambulon’s mouth. There was just enough of the wrist joint left that whoever had capped it off had left it alone. That meant Pharma could tilt the truncated joint recessed inside his forearm. Strangely self-conscious but determined, he flexed the halved joint and smoothed the blunt stub up the gag strap until it reached the flat cheek-slats of his ex-employee’s helm.

Ambulon’s optics could barely focus under the torrent of terror pouring through his body like water forced through a funnel. The small bit of physical contact filtered Pharma’s electromagnetic field into his own, pushing under the overwhelming flood of mindless fear. It seeped into his EM field to dilute the potent mix with determination and the disciplined calm of an experienced surgeon facing a difficult operation. Nothing more. No pity, and no remorse. Either would have likely set him off again, because right now? Yeah, right now, Ambulon would have read the very worst into anything like that. Pity or remorse would hint that Pharma was already writing him off; too bad, so sad, but maybe there’d be a sale on ward managers at the local medical supplies shop or something.

Calm determination felt like every surgery Ambulon had ever assisted in. Pharma didn’t give up. Giving up was for less competent surgeons. Even when Ambulon started to get alarmed over a patient’s vitals, his boss’ field would remain steady. Pharma was professional even when anyone else would lose it completely. The only thing the junior medic had ever seen Pharma get truly riled about was things that impacted his clinic or some other aspect of his work.

Ambulon had used that emotional distance to stabilize his own emotions before. He tried to do it again, but there was a bit more at stake here than a failed operation. A dead patient was not the same as being tortured to death.

Also, there was no way to be optimistic about his chances, here. Forcibly calm as Pharma’s EM field was as transmitted through that small point of contact, Tesarus’ rampant glee had far more surface area to press through into Ambulon. The living grinder’s tunnel rim grated against the back of his head, in fact, the self-sharpening blades inside making a resounding _shiiiing_ noise that went on and on. Giddy joy and perverted excitement left sticky electronic fingerprints under Ambulon’s plating. The ex-Decepticon’s legs kicked unconsciously, trying to escape, but he had no leverage. He was being held above the floor by Tesarus’ machine arms.

Conveniently, that kept him at optic-level with Pharma. Ambulon looked straight into his ex-boss’ blue optics and whimpered behind the gag as one wrist stump scraped against the strap wrapped around his helm. The other stump dropped down to rest on his hip. The halved joint hooked into his pelvic joint and tugged. Tesarus allowed Pharma to turn the smaller Autobot until the jet could take a step forward and catch Ambulon’s thigh between his own.

Ambulon squirmed weakly, incredibly uncomfortable but still trying desperately to move _away_ from the bloody-minded lust at his back and _into_ the impassive calm now pinning his thigh. The fact that, um, it was Pharma? Trapping his thigh? With rather intimate parts of his own anatomy? Not important. He knew where this was leading, and he _didn’t care._ It was still better than getting ground into flechette salad.

It wasn’t that thighs were particularly sexual, but there was something about inner thighs that implied a kind of protective placement. It wasn’t a part of the body that got a lot of casual touching. It was sort of how a mech didn’t grab another mech’s skidplate unless he meant something by it. A slap on the back, yeah, great, well done! A smack on the aft, however, and things took a turn for the weird. Walk over and run fingertips up a mech’s inner thigh or down his throat linkages, and the owner of the venturing fingertips had better be prepared for a reaction beyond that which a mere hand on the arm would have gotten.

Plus, there was the matter of most frametypes having at least one interface access hatch near the pelvic span. In Pharma’s case, he had one hidden between his hip joints behind his groin spalding, and another two nestled on either side of his cockpit nose. His entire pelvic span was a walking sexual innuendo if one chose to look at it that way.

Because, hey, nothing could make this situation more awkward than trying to think about his ex-boss sexually.

No, to be perfectly correct, this situation had no cap on the amount of awkward.

Ambulon rode his pelvic span up the blue thigh between his own thighs, bucking into Pharma hard enough that grayish white paint flecked off, and knew exactly what it looked like. The arm that had been twisting his hips curved behind his back, pulling him forward against Pharma’s cockpit, and there was no evading any of this. Not the fact that Ambulon’s plating immediately contracted and loosened in all the right places to mold snugly against his ex-boss’ front. Not the fact that the arm around his waist dropped further to slide almost to his aft while possessive anger flared out from Pharma’s field to crackle against Tesaru’s machine arm. Not the fact that when Ambulon’s thighs clung to the blue thigh, there was a surging, tank-twisting EM field flare from the machine arms holding him in response.

“Are you going to take this thing off any time today?” Pharma asked waspishly, arm moving up to prod pointedly at the inhibitor claw on the restrained mech’s back. Ambulon was giving it his all, but every move he made was weak and lagged sluggishly. The surgeon glared over his former employee’s head at Tesarus. “It’s not as if he can run away. Vos would enjoy hunting him down again far too much.”

It was as much a warning as a statement of truth. Tesarus laughed as Ambulon winced. “Yeah, good point. Where’s he gonna go, right? He can’t even blow the airlocks without access codes.” The wide leer beneath the red optical X was for Pharma’s sake.

“Don’t I know it,” the jet muttered.

The living grinder sniggered like a juvenile delinquent. “You can’t get away that easy.”

“I wasn’t trying to get away,” Pharma huffed. “I have a flight frame. We were in atmosphere. It was natural enough for me to wish to fly.”

“Uh-huh. I’m buyin’ that. Don’t I look like I’m buying that excuse? Look at this face. This is a face that says I’d buy the Sherma Bridge if you try to sell it to me, right?” Tesarus didn’t even try to wipe off his smug grin. “Maybe next time, eh doc?”

A thread of indignation and embarrassment had knitted through the EM field suddenly pulled tight and close to the jet’s metal, so Ambulon tended to believe Pharma had actually tried to escape. And failed. That was not something he wanted to hear. Was Pharma a prisoner as well?

He swallowed against the gag and tried to push himself up the surgeon’s leg as large hands were abruptly on him from behind. Unlike Pharma, Ambulon’s main interface hatch was set in the prominent collar armor at the back of his neck. He had another one in his pelvic span, but it was a minor one. The one at the back of his neck held most of the related breakers and circuit banks, because that was where his gestalt hook-ups were. Part of the medical modifications he’d been saving up for had been the splice away some of the hook-ups to create more interface access points. It wasn’t like he used the gestalt link-ins, after all. Better to get rid of them entirely and redirect his gestalt-centered internal structure to allow for multiple interfaces at the same time instead of just one.

That was a thought for a future that might not come. It probably wouldn’t, to be honest, but if he was honest right now he’d only start shrieking with despair. For now, Ambulon’s largest vulnerability and associated erogenous zone was being groped by curious, crude fingers. They fumbled over his armor, petting him clumsily, and he shivered at how they touched him. Tesarus handled him not like a living being, but like a toy. A breakable toy that was fun to take apart into many pieces.

The large fingers eventually got around to the inhibitor claw magnetized to Ambulon’s back struts like a heavy energy parasite. “You’re going to behave, okay?” Tesarus said, bending down to say the words into the ex-Decepticon’s audios in a rush of hot air straight from his vents. He did it just to see his victim cringe, unable to escape the unexpected blast of heat. The thighs clamped tight around Pharma’s thigh tried to pinch tighter. “You’re going to be a good little traitor, aren’t you?” Shame popped up like rust-pocket cysts coming to the surface across Ambulon’s EM field, and the living grinder in-vented through his mouth noisily as if to taste the degradation. “You’re going to be a good little traitor and give me my show, and maybe I’ll let you keep all your limbs today. Yeah?”

Ambulon nodded quickly, terrified that the offer would be retracted. Tesarus seemed the type to change his mind on a whim. Feeling the mouth-breathing across the back of his helm did nothing to calm his nerves, and the questions were quite unnecessary. As Pharma had said, where could he run? No, he was going to…give a show, and by all that was holy, he was going to do whatever this monster wanted to keep himself intact!

“That’s a good soon-to-be-dead mech,” Tesarus crooned.

Ambulon’s moan of horror turned to a surprised squeal when the living grinder unlocked the inhibitor claw and thrust him forward at the same time. The drain on his charge disappeared in an almost shocking uptick across his whole body.

Pharma stumbled back from the shove, metal screeching as his leg tore free. His arms waved to keep his balance. “Ex **cuse** you?” he barked. Red feet planted themselves apart when he recovered, and the surgeon faced Tesarus down like he would a particularly annoying patient refusing a treatment plan. Sneer #3 was in place: _’I know better, and this is for your own good.’_ “He is **going** to stay in one piece, or this is just a waste of my time.”

“Fine, fine. Whatever. Get on with it!” Tesarus waved a hand, leaning forward again. The traitor in his prongs was giving up a heady cocktail of shame and terror at the implication that Tesarus might not honor the deal -- or that Pharma might possibly walk away if the deal was in question. “Shooooow.” The grinder grated against the back of Ambulon’s head again, and whimpers came from behind the gag as the massive Decepticon snickered cruelly and sing-songed down at him, “Shoo~oo~oow.”

Yes, the show must go on. Ambulon strained after Pharma, yellow optics wide and pleading. The surgeon already had a large set of paint transfers on either side of his thigh, but that was a testament to Ambulon’s cheap paint job, not passion. The ward manager had a feeling that wasn’t going to be nearly enough to satisfy Tesarus.

Pharma had his chin up and ire raised as he glared at the living grinder, but he lowered both when his former employee wriggled vigorously trying to get his attention. The shorter Autobot’s legs helplessly flailed, unable to reach the floor but trying to get to Pharma nonetheless. Muffled nonsense noises came from behind the gag. This was pointless, really. Tesarus’ smile was so wide it was deranged, and Pharma had enough experience with the D.J.D.’s slippery concept of honesty to know that Tesarus giving his word was relatively worthless.

The surgeon sighed and took the few steps forward to press into Ambulon anyway. There were some things he couldn’t shed, despite how bitterly he shook his wings clear of his history. He was a wanted criminal now, but yet he still couldn’t let go of what he had been. Too soon, perhaps. His actions had been justifiable, although he was aware that not everyone would agree. Ratchet certainly hadn't, but that --

\-- that was a memory he didn’t care to analyze too deeply yet.

It was -- no. Call it denial, but Pharma would rather interface a prisoner under Tesarus’ leering observation than think about that right now.

His lips compressed to a thin line, and Ambulon’s fear crept up his body like poison up a pipette at the sight of his angry scowl. It wasn’t directed at his former ward manager, but the smaller Autobot couldn’t know that. His EM field boiled as he reached out toward Pharma with desperation and fear, and the surgeon blew an exasperated breath out as Ambulon’s terror groveled into the cracks and crannies of his body in an invasion of pleading energy.

Pharma wasn’t a pitiless mech. A hard one, maybe, but sometimes even his practical side felt the pull of compassion.

“Shhh,” he murmured roughly, nudging his thigh between Ambulon’s legs again. Those legs immediately wrapped around him in return, knees bending tight behind his leg and thighs snugging intimately to him. A faint shadow of relief bloomed from the contact, and more muffled words came from behind the gag. Pharma bent the short distance down and lifted one amputated stub to tilt his ex-employee’s face up to meet him. “Shh, shh. This won’t hurt.”

The reassurance came automatically; the same words he’d use to calm a patient down before a procedure now applied to interfacing. The surgeon noted it and let the potential humor fall flat. Right now, it really wasn’t funny. “Shhhh,” he repeated, and then his lips were busy with other things.

The gag was a simple ball strapped uncaringly tight from rings set in the sides. It was too big but had been forced in without consideration for size, straining the ex-Decepticon’s jaw uncomfortably. Pharma brushed a gentle kiss to the corner where a split had opened. Self-repair had already sealed it, but the tiny crusted trail of energon betrayed where it had been. The jet kissed it, more assessing the damage than tender, and slid his lips slowly across Ambulon’s bottom lip. His optical sensors turned down as he turned his head and concentrated on just touching the narrow, tight line of facial plating stretched beneath the gag.

His EM field pushed anger and resigned determination into his once-subordinate. It was totally at odds with how he appeared: dimmed optics seemingly sleepy and relaxed, standing hipshot with the smaller Autobot almost riding his thigh. His hip pushed into Ambulon’s pelvic plating, forcing the other mech’s lower half away even as he himself leaned back slightly under Tesarus’ overeager pushing. One arm snaked under a machine arm prong, radiating annoyed possessiveness to combat the Decepticon’s evil glee. The other’s wrist stump stroked his former subordinate’s jawline.

Ambulon whimpered, hushed but unable to stifle his terror completely. The truncated joint on his jaw guided his head to turn enough that another gentle, assessing kiss could be pressed to the other corner of his mouth. The gag strap was lipped, and teeth closed on the ring to tug as if testing the gag’s buckle. When the buckle held, irritation soaked Pharma’s EM field. It tamped down as determination rose to shoulder it out of the way.

The jet’s lips moved up and over the gag itself. They settled over the ball half protruding from Ambulon’s mouth, pursing to suck on it for a moment before sliding off to allow a short glimpse of a quick tongue licking at the hard gag. As fast as Pharma moved off it, his lips pressed to it again, sliding open to take it in.

Both Autobots were very much aware of the massive mech towering over them, ventilation cycles picking up as he avidly watched Pharma work the ball in and out of his own mouth. The machine arms trembled briefly when the surgeon’s lips met Ambulon’s stretched pair. A twist of Pharma’s head, and the rasp of fine metal plating shrilled through the room. Their lips slid together. Ambulon tentatively pushed into the kiss, a roiling, queasy mix of fear, shame, and embarrassment meeting Pharma’s determination.

The ball disappeared between them, and there was a _schring_ muffled by two mouths. When the ball gag appeared again, it glistened with the plastic sheen of oral fluid where Pharma’s tongue had slicked around it to trace Ambulon’s lips. The surgeon sucked strongly as his head drew back, and the ball _pop_ ped as his lips finally left it.

That obviously had an effect, as a draft of hot, ex-vented air billowed over the two Autobots. Tesarus’ mouth had dropped open a tad, and his optical sensor structure gleamed brilliant red. Yeah, this had been an awesome idea. He liked what he was seeing.

“Do you **mind**?” The machine arm that’d pinched his arm, overeager, sprang open guiltily. Pharma shook the ache out of his pinched forearm without taking his optics away from the over-bright yellow optics pleading at him. “Perverted brute,” he grumbled just low enough that he could claim he hadn’t said anything if Tesarus demanded he repeat himself. “Remove this,” the surgeon ordered, tapping at the gag strap.

A skittering bolt of peevish rebellion shot through the hot burn of lust radiating from the Decepticon’s EM field, and Pharma quickly ducked his head back down. There was another silky _schring_ as smooth metal met, and then Pharma licked along Ambulon’s upper lip. The tip of his tongue slipped just between gag and the junior medic’s lip until he could catch the barest slack between his own lips, almost nibbling tiny kisses down to the corner of Ambulon’s mouth. He showily lapped the dried energon from the sealed split there.

Tesarus’ anger broke up before it reached the surface as he watched. He’d bent over the two entwined mechs, and from his perspective he could see the bridges of two patrician noses moving under yellow and white helm crests, and a tantalizing view between them of white lips moving over the dark ball gag. The tunnel rim at the back of Ambulon’s helm rotated, _whirr-churr_ ing happily. Mmm, yeah, that looked good. Better than anticipated, even. Worth following the arrogant surgeon’s orders for.

Pure fear locked Ambulon’s joints rigid when the machine arms pressing him forward into Pharma’s cockpit pulled him back abruptly. Surprise had the jet’s optics blinking bright blue, and the wrist stump that’d been guiding the smaller Autobot’s head this way and that had no way to grab on as Tesarus hoisted him out of reach. The hulking Decepticon hefted his captive up to his own optic-level, sending Pharma stumbling back as the legs hooked around one blue thigh nearly sent him to the floor before Tesarus shook Ambulon’s grip loose.

The surgeon took another cautionary step back, ducking and throwing his arms up defensively as legs kicked in a panic. “Oh, for -- will you be careful?!”

Tesarus just chortled. He took any opportunity to see the surgeon’s unflappable professionalism ruffled. “I am being careful!” he informed Pharma helpfully. One machine arm clamped down at full power, and metal plating squealed as it tore under the pressure. Ambulon’s muffled vocalizer wailed feedback. “Aww, that must have **hurt** ,” the living grinder said, frowning in mock sympathy. He rested his large chin on the little traitor’s shoulder, tilting his head until they were cheek to cheek. “I bet I could make it better. Want me to make it better, Ambulon?”

Ambulon froze into a shivering statue, optics so wide the frames were exposed. His name had sounded like a promise of pain rolling from his captor’s lips. His vocalizer screamed protest fruitlessly against the obstruction strapped into his mouth. An obstruction that the living grinder handling him like a doll was taking his time removing.

He shook his head frantically, craning his head to try and get away from the sadistic, invasive crawl of the Decepticon’s electromagnetic field transmitting to his own circuitry. Desperate, sad little sounds escaped the gag when Tesarus hugged him closer, machine arms still denting him but actual arms wrapping around him as well. They wound around his waist and squeezed. Given the way they were snuggled together and their size difference, they were like a portrait of a Decepticon and his traitorous doll. Decepticon Justice Division-style playtime doll: Torture Me Barbie.

“No?” Tesarus sounded disappointed. “Are you sure? I could make that pain seem like **nothing** , I promise.”

More head-shaking at the low, horrible promise. Ambulon was trembling so hard the side of his helm rattled against Tesarus’. The top of the Decepticon’s grinder rim was now grinding the paint off the back of his thighs, and Ambulon’s knees were locked stiff. He didn’t dare kick. The machine arms just had to angle him a bit forward, shove _down_ , and -- and he’d -- oh, Primus. Primus, please. Primus, _spare his spark._

Pharma frowned up at them, arms folded again. The half-defensive, half-concealing body language seemed to be habitual now. “Tesarus, really. Is this necessary?” He sounded tired of tolerating the much larger mech’s games. “Take the gag off and give him back.” A nannybot scolding someone who stole a toy couldn’t whip out a wearier chiding tone. _’Tsk tsk. Share, Tesarus.’_

“I don’t know.” The arms around the mech’s waist wrapped all the way around to pat the poor Autobot’s pinioned arms. “I kind of like him like this. You know you’re not going to get away, right?” Tesarus said, red optical X filling Ambulon’s peripheral vision. “You’re here with me for as long as I let you live. Let that sink in, traitor. Dwell on it.” A wide smile and hot ex-vent of air were both felt equally against the side of the medic’s helm. “Because you know what I’m going to do to you when I’m tired of watching you?”

High-pitched whimpering came from deep in Ambulon’s throat as the paint on the back of his thighs stripped away. The grinder rim had picked up the pace. There was a threatening jerk, like the machine arms were going to stuff him down and _in_ at any moment.

“Shooooow,” Tesarus whispered against his audio. “You’re going to give me my shoooow.” The self-sharpening scrape of metal over metal sped up, underlining the Decepticon’s cruel words. “You’re going to make me veeeery happy. Or else. Mmhmm. Or else.” The Autobot nodded and nodded, optics glazing over as optical sensors went over the line between giving off enough light to illuminate and not enough to hamper reception of light waves. “Yeah? Yeah. I’m going to take this gag off, and you’re going to put that mouth of yours to good use. You ask, nice and polite, and take orders like programmed pleasurebot. You do what you’re told. You do more than you’re told. I don’t see enough enthusiasm, I’m gonna think you don’t want this. You want this, right? Or you want to just start with the -- “

Ambulon’s nodding became almost violent. The Autobot turned his head and pushed his cheek against Tesarus’ face like a sick parody of affectionate rubbing from a dumb technimal seeking petting from its owner. His EM field transmitted humiliation straight to the Decepticons to be gloated over.

Tesarus laughed. It was almost a giggle. “Then I want to see you work for it, traitor. I want the doc to moan. I want to see red transfers on your lips, got it? I want you between his legs, and on his cockpit, and frag, do I want to see you suck his wingtips. Make sure you do that.”

The optical X couldn’t change expression, but the big mech’s smile turned positively dreamy. This was the sexual wishlist from the Pit. Pharma could only overhear half of it, and he looked openly scandalized by what he was listening to. This was worse than the fan letters section of First Aid’s torrid Wreckers rag. The surgeon’s wing hinges creaked as they tried to flatten back in revolted reaction.

“Lick out his thrusters. Bite the rims, and if you don’t get your hands up inside that turbine of his, I’m going to be **very** disappointed.” Disappointment would translate to pain for the weakly struggling mech in his arms, obviously. “If his circuits aren’t so blown I see sparks and smoke, you’d better try harder. I want to feel the charge burn off you two hot enough to scorch the floor. Or the wall. Oh, yeah. Wall and floor. Move a lot. I like my shows active. And I want to **see**. When you take your cables out, gimme some teasing. Don’t just click in and be done with it! The quicker the show, the faster your time runs out. Remember that.” Another cuddly, terrible squeeze. Tesarus wanted six of these, half dozen of the other, plus all the energon goodies with whipped gelled engex on top and sprinkles, too. “Got it?”

More nodding. Ambulon’s hands were clenched in shaking fists, and his optics squinted shut as far as the protective shutters would close. He turned his head and did his good pet routine again, rubbing and pushing pathetic, eager-to-please acceptance into his EM field. Tesarus basked in his total subjugation, letting the humiliated surrender eat away like acid at the traitor’s composure. Another whimper could barely be heard at this range. The Decepticon heard and savored it.

A jet engine growled ill-tempered impatience, however. “If you are **quite** done working out the choreography for your live pornography,” Pharma bit out, spitting the words out like bullets, “might we move on to the actual show? Or are you going to start writing a script, now?”

The temptation was there, plain to see. “Heeeey, could be hot,” the Decepticon chirped brightly. His captive recoiled but couldn’t go anywhere. “Think you could do some dirty talk? Always wanted to have someone say, ‘Put your big lift shaft screw jack plug in my conductor jack socket. Make that travel nut fit!’” A few grunts suggesting effort, and Tesarus laughed loudly. “’Give me the whole sleeve!’”

Embarrassment skimmed over Ambulon’s entire body as the shock passed and he processed the imagery _that_ called up.

Pharma’s face went completely blank. After a moment, one optic twitched. “That act would be,” he said slowly, “medically inadvisable.”

“Aw. No dirty talk?” The living grinder leered. “Talk clinical at each other, doc!”

“The only way that would happen is we were diagnosing your blatant and copious amount of mental problems.”

“So…no?” The surgeon just glared. Tesarus near-giggled again. “Sometimes you’re no fun. I hope you give as good a show without Tarn here.” Suddenly, Pharma was looking away and studying a wall intently. Or the implements of torture on the wall, anyway. It was hard to tell when Ambulon was concentrating on the grinder still stripping his thighs of paint and the fingers working at the buckle behind his helm. “Guess I should let you get on with it, though, eh?”

“You do that,” Pharma said flatly.

The Decepticon hummed happily in time with the clash of his internal blades, and Ambulon tried not to squirm like prey. The hands on the back of his helm unhurriedly unbuckled the gag strap, but the strap actually tightened. The corners of his mouth split further as the ball gag dug into them.

“You remember what I said,” Tesarus whispered, breath hot. The pretty traitor-toy gave small jerking nods against the strap. “Good.”

Machine arms lowered, daintily setting the ex-Decepticon’s feet on the floor at long last. The prongs clamping Ambulon’s arms to his sides stayed, however. Whether it was to keep the terrified mech from foolishly trying to run or just to keep him from collapsing in a heap was unclear. Ambulon’s EM field briefly reflected relief for the solid surface under his feet, but only until one of Tesarus’ real hands came down on his shoulder.

Yellow optics went wide. The big hand massaged as if testing the metal of his shoulder for exploitable weakness. After a moment of groping, the hand still holding the gag strap like bridle reins pulled him backward. He stumbled back because he had no choice, and a high-pitched sound like a glitchmouse dying came from behind the gag as the back of his helm came up against something loud and moving. It scraped against his helm. The grinder rim. Oh, _Primus._

The machine arms lifted him up just enough that his feet barely touched the ground. Ambulon shrieked. Point made! He could still be stuffed in the grinder at any moment! He wasn’t safe in any way! Okay, yes, he got it!

Tesarus smiled widely at the jet waiting impatiently for him to finish terrorizing his captive. With a nasty flourish, he removed the gag entirely. “There you go.”

“Ph -- “ Ambulon coughed his vocalizer through reset, ignoring how his strained jaw ached terribly. Tesarus’ instructions were written in burning fire across his cortex, and they were the most important words in his whole world right now. “Pharma! Please, I w-want to in-interface with you.” He swallowed, desperately trying to pick the right words to make the prongs stop squeezing him in kneading motions like the living grinder at his back was searching for the right grip for stuffing-into-torso tunnel purposes. “I -- please, Pharma, may I interface with you? I can m-make it good; really, I can, just t-tell me what I should do. I’ll do it, I will!”

The surgeon looked down into his former ward manager’s pleading face as he stepped forward. He hated being this close to Tesarus. The smug fragger’s EM field glugged sticky-smug satisfaction over both Autobots. It felt like getting doused in used coolant. The energy field got denser and more innuendo-loaded for every hike upward Ambulon’s voice took. In comparison to Tesarus’ thick field, Ambulon’s electromagnetic energy sheered off him in thin, wavering spikes that had nowhere to go. They were almost painful to feel scrabbling at Pharma’s own in an attempt to mesh, like Ambulon was a feeder fish trying to hide behind him while a shark looked on, grinning.

The smaller Autobot shut off his optics and obviously did his best to not start begging for mercy. “I-I’m at your disposal,” he said shrilly. “Use me, please! I can be a frag-toy or whatever you want, just -- “

“Will you just shut up?” the surgeon interrupted, disgusted by everything. This situation was lose-lose, and he absolutely hated that he had to stoop to these tactics just to delay the inevitable.

The poor mech didn’t seem like he could actually stop babbling, so Pharma dipped down and took Ambulon’s open mouth before more words could patter out to fall in a sad heap of pitiful groveling on the floor. That didn’t stop the quick pants of overheated air as the ex-Decepticon tried to cool panic-heated systems. Ambulon struggled, trying to meet him halfway, willing to do anything at all for a minute more of delay.

The surgeon’s field pushed at the Decepticon’s lechery. Acidic hatred stung at Tesarus’ machine claws. Ambulon trembled in them, but Pharma’s arms wrapped around him as if to combat their threat. Tesarus chortled and refused to let the surgeon pull the traitor out of his hold. He quite liked having this show right in front of him. It let him feel how the ex-Decepticon shuddered convulsively in terror, not desire. The two EM fields fighting over the prisoner clashed while the mech’s own energy cowered between them. Tesarus sucked in that fear and Pharma’s hatred while looming over the entwined Autobots to stare avidly.

It was a good show visually as well as on the energy spectrum. Red and white and primary blue came together as plating loosened to fit two dissimilar frametypes against each other. White lips pressed together underneath helm crests of yellow and white. Ambulon strained forward, trying to find safety by osmosis, burrowing into the questionable shelter of his ex-boss’ aggressively bristling electromagnetic energy. Pharma’s leg had pushed between Ambulon’s thighs again, but their height difference now that the ward manager’s feet were on the floor meant that the shorter mech could only rock his pelvic span along Pharma’s lower thigh.

It looked pretty enough from Tesarus’ angle. The Decepticon leaned back and cocked his head a bit check out how Ambulon’s aft bucked and rode that blue thigh. That was a nice view, mhmm. He transmitted a brief clip of the action to the other D.J.D. members, pinging their comm. frequencies with a belated info-dump on what was going on. They’d been scheduled to start torturing the traitor soon, but he thought this was worth a few hours’ delay. Just a few. Maybe more, depending on how well this progressed.

One of Pharma’s forearms had slid up to come between Ambulon’s head and the grinder rim scraping paint off the poor mech’s helm. That didn’t stop the happy grinder noises, but at least it pushed Ambulon into the kiss instead of back into a torture device. The surgeon’s lips glided against his ex-employee’s, less of a kiss than just blockage. The ward manager couldn’t stop sobbing blasts of air into his mouth. He _was_ trying to move his lips against Pharma’s, but he’d reached the point of fear where his extremities had gone somewhat numb. His lips weren’t exactly cooperating with what his terror-crazed mind was demanding they do.

Every time the surgeon’s lips lifted, even a little, an energy-bleed of terror-saturated vented air burst out of Ambulon’s mouth in ugly sobs. The ward manager’s face had twisted in a permanent flinch, but his mouth gaped open for easy access. That, fear had engraved into his mind. A kiss was going to save him, so he was going to kiss.

Unfortunately, there was a vast difference between a kiss and just standing there shaking. Passively letting Pharma do whatever he liked wouldn’t get them very far.

Determination pushed into Ambulon’s quaking EM field, trying to override the terror by enveloping the condemned mech in as much security as Pharma could provide. His ex-boss couldn’t erase the fear, but he could try to tamp it down enough that Ambulon could respond. Pharma tilted his head the other way and stroked into the other Autobot’s mouth with his tongue. He ran it over the chemical receptors lining the roof of Ambulon’s mouth, coaxing out a reaction as they registered foreign oral fluid, and curled it around Ambulon’s own tongue. That got him a reflexive curl of the slick metal against his own.

It wasn’t much, but it was start. Pharma shifted his head a touch more and forced their mouths a fraction further into each other. Ambulon’s head tried to jerk back as their lips crushed together, but the surgeon’s arm kept him in place until the smaller Autobot’s mind caught up. Pharma plunged his tongue deeper to stroke all the way from base to tongue tip, sliding his tongue across the flat of Ambulon’s tongue to lick up the inside of the teeth on the other side. The flux of temperature and pressure sensors broke the ward manager’s terrified paralysis where Pharma’s circuit-level reassurance had failed.

Air heaved out of the ward manager in a terrible mix of helpless sob and shuddering fear, and then Ambulon was cramming his tongue as far into his ex-boss’ mouth as he could. Pharma nearly gagged on it. His own tongue drew back to defensively war with the intruder, less of a kiss than fighting off the uncoordinated lapping of someone so desperate seduction had become a blunt object. Ambulon all but tried to crawl inside Pharma’s mouth to hide.

“Grwar,” the surgeon managed, but Ambulon’s tongue wrestled any attempt at actual words away.

“Mffee,” Ambulon whimpered back, miserable and almost biting at Pharma’s lips when the surgeon’s tongue escaped for a second. The arm cradling the back of his helm yanked away and flailed slightly, setting against the shorter Autobot’s shoulder to push him away, but Ambulon was _not_ going to cooperate with that. He latched onto Pharma’s bottom lip and whimpered again. “Pffse!”

The pleading tone came through clearly, but the jet still jerked his head back. “Frag,” he gasped, optics flicking up to assess the damage.

Tesarus gaped down at them, fans whirring audibly. The Decepticon’s optic structure glowed a fascinated red as he stared, and Pharma frowned as Ambulon immediately began mouthing at whatever was available since his lips were out of reach. The assault by kiss had evidently looked better than it’d felt. Or perhaps it felt better than Pharma suspected. With the way Tesarus’ field was glomming onto them, it was hard to tell how much the living grinder was picking up on.

The surgeon leaned his head back, letting Ambulon work down his neck cabling. "You’ve going to have to let him go,” he pointed out, forcibly reasonable. His disapproval bypassed his former ward manager’s shriveled flicker of electromagnetic energy to crash against Tesarus’. “Unless you don’t want us to get on with it."

Rabid, vile glee dripped over Ambulon in turn. “I like this,” Tesarus said back, grinning wide. His captive turned his head, looking up from underneath Pharma’s jaw to see the spinning rim of a grinder and that avid red ‘X’ standing over him. Terror surged. Ambulon burrowed further into the jet’s neck. The machine prongs holding his arms pinned to his sides tightened as if to remind him they were there.

He didn’t need the reminder, thank you. Very aware he was making out with his ex-boss to avoid being pulverized, Ambulon was.

"I don't -- I can't -- " The badly-painted medic shuddered convulsively. Pharma’s EM field briskly shouldered into him, pushing against the tidal wave of fear threatening to break over the poor mech and send him into hysterics. The arm on his shoulder slid over his collar armor to tip his chin up. Since Ambulon could barely keep his teeth from chattering as terror sent him shivering, Pharma took his turn lipping his way down neck cabling. “Pl-please, I…”

He couldn’t manage to keep a single thought going. The fear drove coherency from him. Whatever pleasure he might have gotten from the hot lap of a strangely talented tongue manipulating his neck cabling, it didn't stand up to the fact that there was a giant grinder grating right behind his helm. The deep _whir-churr_ of the mechanism was bad enough, but the blades kept self-sharpening in shrill, rilling _schiiiing_ scraping sounds that knotted mechs internal tubing. That was the sound of messy screaming death, and every terrible scrape was underlaid with Tesarus’ voyeuristic joy.

"I don't have hands," Pharma snarled out in a low hiss. Sadly, he was still the more fortunate Autobot standing in the room. “If you want this to go anywhere, he’s going to need the use of at least one arm. Trust me, he’s not going to suddenly assault you.” He closed his mouth around the main energon tube and suckled, using his lips to time pump rate. Between the racing fuel pump and stark terror, Ambulon was probably one good scare from collapsing into gibbering. He sighed into the shorter Autobot’s neck. If only his employees possessed the same steel back struts he did.

The surgeon let go of the tube only to use his tongue tip to trace it upward under the edge of Ambulon’s helm. A few testing licks, and he located the main networking cluster for the sensor nodes on that circuit of the smaller mech’s body. It took some tricky tonguing -- usually he’d use his fingers, but since that wasn’t an _option_ , well, he’d make do -- but he teased it far enough out for some play.

A light nip, and Ambulon twitched, optics flickering. Intense sensation cascaded down his neck to spangle his upper chest, left shoulder, and arm with pleasure. It branched upward as well, shooting up under his helm to burst across sensors that didn’t typically respond to touch. Even his _optical sensors_ registered sensation that translated as pleasurable. A puff of air redirected from Pharma’s vents to his mouth blew heat across that same cluster, and the ward manager made an odd _’haahhngh’_ sound. The noise of Pharma’s vents cycling to blow more hot air had Ambulon’s audios fuzzing slightly.

More odd noises leaked out of his mouth as the jolts of pleasure distracted him from the terror that’d held him rigid. “A-ahh. Pharm-muh…uh. Oooh.”

That cluster continued to receive meticulous attention leaving no node unaffected, and it caught the Autobot completely off-balance. The last thing he’d expected to feel while smothered under Tesarus’ smug aura was actual pleasure. Pharma used the tip of his tongue to draw the tiniest of fine lines around the network connections, and Ambulon moaned, optics shutting off. Moisture and heat pampered a cluster that normally never got singled out. His knees might have weakened if they were supporting any of his weight in the first place.

From the door to the torture cell, a deep voice asked, "Pharma, this is how you train your employees?"

Pharma froze, EM field falling to a learned neutrality. It was the feel of a professional surgeon taking his emotions and putting them away in a lockbox for after a critical procedure. It was a familiar feeling for anyone who’d ever entered an operation theatre with him.

Ambulon knew the feeling, but he couldn’t copy it for his own emotions. The brief reprieve Pharma’s pleasure-trick had bought him snapped back into reality, and Ambulon went rigid. He’d already been a petrified statue, but now he transcended stillness and appeared to be trying to vanish into thin air.

"No," the surgeon replied evenly, optics locked with his ex-employee's. His voice could have been used to carve titanium. Ambulon couldn’t tell if the surgeon was turning that sharp tone on him, or on the Decepticon standing in the door to the torture chamber. "Typically, I train my staff to be helpful in every emergency situation. We’re occupied with one such situation at the moment,” was tossed at the large mech, “so if you could come back, oh, **never** , that would be helpful.”

The flippancy got a flare of dark red optics behind that sinister mask. Ambulon made a noise composed of 80% desperation and 20% pure pleading. The stillness of cornered prey broke into waves of terrified shivers. He didn’t understand how Pharma could be mouthing off at a time like this. That was _Tarn_ , the leader of the _Decepticon Justice Division_. The ward manager’s hands clenched and unclenched in utter panic at his sides, and he could _feel_ the way Tesarus fed off his quivering electromagnetic field. He felt as if his circuitry were trying to turn in on itself to hide, but the walking grinder just hugged him closer to lap up the thin energy.

“Primus spare my spark," Ambulon breathed.

Pharma lunged forward suddenly, pressing the side of his mouth to Ambulon's helm. "Cooperate. Do exactly as I say. Are you listening? **Exactly** as I say. Concentrate, you brainless fool!"

"What **are** you doing?" Tarn's head cocked to the side. Ambulon couldn’t stop staring at him. The hiss in his audio sounded very far away and unimportant compared to the amused glint in those red optics. "A hug for the condemned?"

"I want a show," Tesarus complained from above the two Autobots. He lifted their latest victim slightly and shook him a bit, as if a show would pop out on demand. Ambulon: porn dispenser. The walking grinder was getting impatient with the slow progression of events. He wanted a show, and he wanted it now!

His leader looked to him and nodded. He’d gotten Tesarus’ update, and he did agree with the reasoning. They looked quite nice together, indeed, and the short video transmitted with the info-dump had been intriguing. Not just the colors and exotic look of two medics together; it was who they were and what they felt about this. He took a moment to savor how Pharma was trying protect the traitor. The surgeon was attempting to remain aloof, he could tell, but there was an edge of defensiveness that couldn’t be erased when holding onto a mech like that. Yes, this was worth some delay.

Tarn turned an expectant stare on the two Autobots. "A show, Pharma. Or should we begin with our own entertainment?"

Tesarus' grip tightened, machine arms eager. Ambulon's knees gave out completely, and he dangled limply from the machine arms holding him helpless. Frantic yellow optics stared up at his ex-boss.

"Yes." It came out in a truly pathetic whimper. He understood. He’d do anything. "Please, Pharma..."

The surgeon studied him closely, judging how rational he was anymore considering the weight of fear. The poor Autobot seemed to have enough wits left in him to follow orders, for now. This might -- _might_ \-- work, then. He knew how to play this game already, but having another game piece made him more vulnerable than he’d admit to. He was trying not to give a scrap because he already knew how this all would end, but Ambulon shut off his optics and burrowed his face into Pharma’s neck, and there went that resolution.

Pharma stood up straight and turned to stride toward his...host. "You! Transform." One stump waved impatiently, as if telling him to get on with it.

Bemused, Tarn just looked down at him. "I beg your pardon."

The shorter mech made a disparaging noise and aggressively prodded at his chest as if telling him to get on with it. "You wanted a show. I'll give you one.” The prodding became impatient, and the flyer pushed forward to sweep a prickle of impatient electromagnetic energy over Tarn. What was the hold-up? Get with the program, tank! “Deal is, you let my staff alone."

Oh ho, was that the deal? One massive purple hand snapped forward and seized a wing, and impatience was met with a boil of annoyance starting on the surface of Tarn’s field. Pharma stopped in his tracks. As confident as he appeared, well, this _was_ Tarn he was attempting to order around.

"Deal is," Tarn purred, silk and leather and chains, oh my, "I'll consider keeping him alive, **in servitude** , if your show entertains us.”

It was a rigged deal that still ended in torture and death when Ambulon inevitably lost luster as a toy, but it was a fairer bargain than any of the of the List had been privileged to get a chance at before. The only ones who truly benefited from this deal were the D.J.D. Pharma didn't so much as twitch, but Ambulon's whimper was loud enough to make Tesarus pull him closer and laugh at his misery.

"He doesn't need all his limbs, right?" the grinder asked, torso-tunnel revving hungrily.

"Anticipation will make the ending so much sweeter," Kaon remarked as he walked into the room behind Tarn.

"Please no, please no, please," Ambulon twisted futilely against the arms slowly lifting him off the ground, "no no no no no!"

The deal was a trap, and like every trap Tarn set for his pet-jet, Pharma saw the jaws closing about him even as he knew he was going to step into it. His mind raced, searching for solutions that just weren’t there. Ambulon voice rose toward a panicked shriek, still chanting fruitless denials, and a white wing flicked back against Tarn’s hold on it. He’d thought the D.J.D. had inflicted every indignity possible on him already, but no. No, it seemed there was a whole host of new humiliations left to be dragged through. Curse him for a fool to not be able to walk out of this room and leave Ambulon to these monsters.

"Transform and swing your turrets over here," the surgeon said, low and strangely flat, "and we'll give you a show worth keeping him intact for."

That caught their attention. Even Kaon’s sightless optical pits turned toward him. Ambulon bit his lip hard enough to pierce the outer metal, trying to avoid attention being drawn back to his torment as Tesarus tilted him to one side in order to peer around him at the proud surgeon standing defiant before Tarn. Pharma tipped his chin up and met the optics of the larger mech steadily.

After a moment, Tarn transformed.

Red-stamped wings fanned back, although it wasn’t clear from the murky confusion of his EM field whether the jet were relieved or disgusted. Tarn rocked slightly on his treads when Pharma actually stepped on top of him, one foot purposely scraping over the Decepticon emblem as he climbed aboard and turned around. His vent-broad shoulders and attached wings took some wriggling to situate between Tarn’s upper turrets, which changed the burgeoning irritation over being stepped on into amused interest. That interest only grew when Pharma slid his narrow waist between the tank’s lower turrets, shoulders carefully positioned to not catch on the upper as slender hips eased into place. The medic finally sat down, cautiously at first, then reclining like an emperor on his throne.

The Decepticons were intrigued. Pharma wasn’t known for voluntarily touching any of them, much less taking anything to these lengths. This was a position that had taken some thought to achieve, and it was unexpectedly hot. The surgeon fit snugly around and between Tarn’s cannons, intimately entwined but looking every inch in control as he relaxed. That looked...nice. Very nice.

Pharma gave another twitch to conform his armor to his new seat. Tarn’s engines threatened to turn over underneath him, and Pharma’s EM field radiated self-satisfaction for a move well-played. The surgeon purposely shifted his aft yet again, rolling the balls of his hip joints against black armor and digging the edges of his skidplate into it as well. He felt the thunk under him as Tarn had to manually stop an engine-rev, and the surgeon smiled a bit.

The whole squad was looking at him curiously. Vos and Helex had stopped in the doorway, wondering what was going on, but now they were peering around Tarn’s altmode at the surgeon like spectators on the sideline. The flyer had successfully become the center of everyone’s attention. The quivering, occasionally shuddering ex-Decepticon held nearly off the ground by Tesarus stared at him as if he were Primus Himself. Pharma propped one elbow on a lower cannon barrel and rested the side of his helm against a fist, just looking at his ex-employee.

He waited until the Decepticons all turned to look as well. The mental pictures started. He could see it in how their optics glanced back and forth between them. By now, he knew how to judge the gurgle of Helex’s smelter, the level of ozone scent from Kaon’s shoulder coils. He didn’t like to think about how he’d gotten that experience, but he would take every advantage he had to use. The D.J.D. were getting _ideas_ , and Pharma was going to encourage that.

When Vos’ trigger clicked, the surgeon raised his other arm and curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture. Tesarus chuckled and dropped his captive.

Ambulon hit the ground already scrambling forward, crawling and running and throwing himself on top of the seated Autobot in a frenzied, desperate, no-holds-barred embrace. Lips met hard enough to cause sparks, and they breathed hot air breathed down each other’s intakes. Ambulon straddled the surgeon’s knees, unable to sit closer because of the cannons now pressed to the fronts of his thighs. The rising charge inside the barrels as he shifted against them scared him to death, but Ambulon leaned into it all the same in order to push his upper body into Pharma’s. That left him in an awkward position bent over Tarn’s turrets, aft on display, something the arm running down his back made even more obvious when it pulled on the small of his back, forcing him to arch his back struts down. Pharma’s other arm lay along the lower set of cannons, and the amputated wrist caressed the back of Ambulon’s thigh. It slid up and into into the gap between thigh and pelvic armor to rub back and forth, pushing that chipped red aft up further for the benefit of watching, greedy optics.

If his ex-boss didn't have hands to use, then obviously Ambulon had to use his own twice as much. On everything within reach, including, when Pharma not-so-subtly prodded his arm upward, the cannon turrets they were nearly wrapped around. A strangled whimper of terror got out when Tarn’s sadistic pleasure pulsed against the palm of his hand, but Ambulon obediently trailed his fingers along the underside. He knew it was his terror that the Decepticon delighted in, but he forced his shaking fingers to find a seam and stroke it lightly even as his other hand tried to crush the edge of his ex-boss’ shoulder vent.

He hid his face against Pharma’s. It was the stupid illogic of a desperate mech: if he couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see him. His face reflected complete terror so deep he couldn’t change expression. Everything about this situation was awkward and ugly. He just kind of shoved his face at his ex-boss and trembled so hard he couldn’t really make his lips work right. Pharma frowned against his rigid lips and tried to turn it into some form of a kiss by molding his mouth to the smaller mech’s. Their chests ground together, metal squeaking slightly and Ambulon’s cheap paintjob leaving smears against the better quality paint underneath him.

The ward manager closed his mouth a bit after Pharma slid a coaxing tongue along the roof of his mouth. That got an approving huff -- finally! -- and Pharma tipped his head the other direction to fit their mouths together into a better attempt. Of all the things he’d had to train his employees to do, hands-less on-the-job make-out lessons were a first.

Ambulon’s hand traced the seam outward until he dropped his arm and started rubbing his palm against the lower barrel digging into his thigh. His fingers found a ridge and _clamped_ on it because a sound started up behind him. A sound that was too close for comfort, not that any of this was comfortable, but far, far too close to inspire anything but fuel-churning panic.

It was the sound of a grinder churning. How the _schiiiing_ scraping sound managed to sound somehow happy was a mystery. A terrible mystery that Ambulon wasn’t interested in solving. Grinders should not be happy. This was fundamentally wrong.

He didn’t need to turn and see who that was. He didn't want to see. He knew who it was, and he didn’t want to see the expression that accompanied that sound.

Hitching, tiny shakes infected his shoulders as his intakes seized up, and Ambulon could only suck in small gasps of air at a time to cool systems far too hot already. His tanks felt like they were full of ice, but his body was overheated in terror. He turned his head, crushing his lips over Pharma's in a terrible attempt at deepening the kiss. The surgeon stifled a small sound of pain and tried to ease back, but the ward manager was too afraid. His hand left Tarn’s cannon and snatched at the back of Pharma’s neck, keeping his ex-boss in place because please, please, he couldn’t tolerate even the smallest hint that he was being abandoned right now.

It was horrible. There was nothing less sexy in the world right now than the feel of Pharma’s cool mouth painfully sliding against his. The arm over his back tightened and relaxed. The surgeon sighed and let him press closer, trembling and seeking any sliver of comfort that could be found. His EM field extended, pushing deliberate calm into the chest trying to stick to his own via sheer desperation. Ambulon sucked that faint touch of energy in, trying to find in it a promise, a hope, anything. Anything to hold up against the horrid scraping creel of a grinder waiting behind him.

He pushed harder and harder, the overlapping plates of their lips denting and catching, almost ready to tear. Their tongues licked against each other as Ambulon shoved his in as far as he could. The back of Pharma’s mouth tasted like sour fuel and bitter disgust. Ambulon sloppily tipped his head back the other way and pushed their lips together again.

The grinding noise got closer. "That's more like it!" crowed the huge Decepticon who'd been going to make Ambulon into mince only kliks ago. He sounded so happy.

Ambulon whimpered and pressed down harder, optics offline. A soft facial plate caught against Pharma’s bottom lip and popped out of alignment, nicking a micro-tube underneath. Processed energon leaked into their mouths.

Pharma grunted and managed to get an arm up between them, pushing him back. "Careful!" he snapped, and Ambulon flinched at how _loud_ he was. Yellow optics lit again, flicking around wildly like Ambulon expected the sound to bring the D.J.D. swooping in. Every instinct in the ex-Decepticon’s survival protocols was screaming at him to stay quiet and still in a last-ditch attempt to stay unnoticed.

Perhaps Pharma had more experience in life-threatening situations, or maybe he was coded differently, but he wasn’t even close to quiet or still right now. "I'm not a block of plate steel!"

The surgeon scooted himself back between Tarn’s turrets while Ambulon was busy flinching. The hand that’d been on the back of the flyer’s neck let go, and Pharma knocked it aside with one arm. He used his forearm to direct it toward the nearest cannon, and Ambulon made a soft, terrified sound as he obediently returned to stroking Tarn.

Long red feet scraped over the Decepticon’s armor as Pharma rearranged himself. “Why is it every oaf who gets his hands on me feels the need to paw me like I’m built like a Magnus?” he grumbled. He jabbed an elbow pointedly into his ‘seat.’

The cannon Ambulon caressed so desperately fizzed electromagnetic amusement against his palm, and the condemned mech flinched again. That was more than he ever wanted to know about what relations were like between his ex-boss and this monster. More importantly, it was a reprimand, and Tesarus’ explicit instructions were still burnt across his cortex.

He had to ask, he had to _do_ certain things, and he had to please Tesarus. "I'm sorry, Pharma, I'm sorry, let me let me oh Primus wh-what should I -- "

The jet gave him a sharp look and...undulated oddly, shifted about where he sat so his back and thighs rubbed against his seat. Which was a tank. Which was the altmode of the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, which had finally caught up with their prey, which they specialized in torturing to death, which was going to take a long, long time, which was unfortunate because Ambulon was surrounded by five mechs very eager to start killing him.

He couldn't even close his lips into anything resembling a proper kiss when Pharma used the edge of his wrist to guide him in again. He just sobbed hot air in loud gulps, shaking so hard with terror that his mouth slid twice out of alignment before Pharma sealed their lips together. Ambulon freed one violently shaking hand -- the hand not on Tarn, because this was to please Tarn as well, he had to please them _all_ , Primus help him -- and reached out to touch a wing. His fingers clattered against the medical symbol until he pressed them flat against the panel. He tried to pinch the red edges, but he didn’t have that much control over fine motor skills at this point. He managed a clumsy petting motion.

Fear clamped his knees together hard enough to dent Pharma’s thighs. "Please,” he begged into the sad excuse for a kiss. “Please, help me, please help me!"

"Shhh," his ex-boss murmured, low voice roughly soothing as he lifted his head to kiss along Ambulon's upper lip, then turned his helm to kiss along the bottom one as well.

The small kisses of contact stung with the same kind of focused determination Pharma used to get during a difficult surgery. That EM field had snapped against Ambulon every time he'd assisted. It was familiar, and enough of a balm that Ambulon found the coordination to slip his hand off the cannon barrel in order to put it on the back of the jet's helm instead. He still shook, but he focused with every bit of concentration he had left.

This time, when Pharma slanted his mouth across the smaller Autobot's, Ambulon actually managed to kiss back. His hand tightened, and his head tilted further so their mouths fit together better as he made himself sit up straighter, resettle his weight. He was too-aware of the fact that every time he shifted, his aft bobbed out there for everyone to stare at. His optics turned off once more, and he desperately wished he could turn his audios off as well. As he stroked his tongue along Pharma's, the happy grinding came again. It was so fragging _close_.

A handless arm snaked around his back, possessive and flaring with warning. Pharma was claiming this victim as his own. The D.J.D. could wait their turn.

The other arm dropped lower, urging Ambulon out of his downward arch and into pushing his hips forward instead. Pharma was too hemmed in by Tarn’s lower turret set to spread his legs very wide, but he parted them enough that Ambulon could wedge one knee between them. It let the ward manager half-lay on him, pressing together from mouth to thigh, although Ambulon made a tiny sound of fear at the way he had to almost straddle Tarn’s cannon in order to do so.

At the same time, Pharma gave that funny little squirm again. Their pelvic plating rocked together. Blue and white arms tightened, drawing him closer. The flyer’s cockpit glass squeaked over Ambulon’s chest. Ambulon reluctantly let go of the helm he'd ended up clinging to and braced his hand behind Pharma’s head, on black armor practically humming with voyeuristic enjoyment. As he leaned up against his ex-boss, he made his trembling hand leave Pharma’s wing and reached upward to stroke one of the huge turrets their heads rested between.

The surgeon’s head drew back so their mouths barely whispered together. "Lick it," Pharma ordered, lips making silvery noises against the other mech’s.

His former employee shuddered, onlining his optics to stare at him sickly. But he turned his head obediently enough when Pharma only gave him a stern look. After opening his mouth twice in false starts and swallowing multiple times, the smaller Autobot finally managed to stick his tongue out and swipe it along Tarn's cannon. Someone laughed, and that set off a wave of amusement around the room as the rest of the Decepticons joined in. Tarn’s rich voice laughed as well, but his enjoyment could be more viscerally felt by how his circuitry flared under Ambulon’s tongue.

The ward manager looked like he'd purge his tanks any moment as his lips buzzed with the tank’s pleasure, and he glanced at the jet out of the corner of his optics after one lick. When Pharma jerked his chin, Ambulon whimpered small and low before sticking his tongue out for another. He found a series of weld lines from some long ago injury and licked every line, his tongue rasping over the rough-healed metal that spoke of inadequate medical care. Too much self-repair, not enough actual medic work. Ambulon viciously hoped that someday Tarn tried to recover on his own from something too deep for self-repair to handle.

It was the petty ill-wishing of a powerless mech. Ambulon kept licking.

Pharma himself focused on mouthing the poor Autobot's neck and collar armor. His hips rocked steadily, rubbing his aft over Tarn like he was riding the Decepticon but bumping forward against Ambulon's too-hot armor as well. The buzzing energy against his back and thighs increased with every broad lick Ambulon was visibly forcing himself to make. Tarn was amused by the lengths this traitor would go to.

There was also a purring tide of something else rising up their thighs, saturating their armor. Something darker and richer than amusement. Something nauseatingly familiar to the jet, and something Ambulon could guess at. The smaller Autobot turned his head aside, away from the cannon, and pleaded with his optics that this was enough, tell him it was enough, don't make him do this any more. Please, he didn’t want to...didn’t want to...not _that_.

Suddenly, sick recognition became nothing but stark terror as Ambulon was snatched bodily off Pharma's lap.

"Show!" Tesarus whooped. "Show show show!"

He was going to die. _He was going to die_. It was going to be slow and messy and --

Set to the soundtrack of his ex-boss having a snit-fit, it sounded like. “What in the smelted Pit-slag iron pour is **wrong** with you?!” Pharma was yelling at the giant mech waving Ambulon about like a trophy. The jet threw up his arms and climbed down off Tarn, kicking at the tank spitefully as he did so. “Nevermind. It’d take me all cycle to list just the physical problems. We’d be here all night if I started in on the psychological.” He pointed at the floor with one handless wrist. “Put him **down** , you rusted waste of standing space!”

The living grinder lowered his arms slowly -- all of them, including the machine arms holding Ambulon up -- and gave the slender medic facing off against him a sullen glare. Pharma folded his arms, almost absently tucking the handless wrists out of sight, and glared back. It was a glare-off. Pharma’s best _’Why do you exist?’_ sneer went up against Tesarus’ pouty scowl.

Ambulon just stayed very still and prayed for this all to be a nightmare.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Tesarus growled.

“What thing?” Pharma shot back.

“That thing where you think you’re smarter than I am.” One immense foot took an intimidating step forward. At least, Ambulon was intimidated. Frag, he was flat-out terrified.

Pharma had the audacity to look _bored_. Then again, Ambulon’s ex-boss had the guts to take over an emergency clinic behind enemy lines. After everything at Delphi had gone down, Ambulon had reasoned out the surgeon’s courage had been from making the deal with the D.J.D., but no. It looked like Pharma was fully capable of getting into a stare-down with walking grinders on his own right. The mech had bearings the diameter of Cybertron’s moons.

“I **am** smarter than you are,” Pharma stated factually. A dangerous _chk-chk-chk_ ing whirr from behind Ambulon had his ex-employee keening quietly in hopeless fear, but the flyer just smirked sardonically at Tesarus. “Of the two of us, which is the one keeping ‘the show’ from happening?”

That gave Tesarus pause.

Pharma snorted indelicately. “You are an over-enthusiastic, sadistic walking junkyard scrapper,” the jet said.

“You’re an overbearing, self-important, handless ingrate,” the Decepticon said back.

“Y’know, if you’re not using him,” Helex interjected, gesturing at the Autobot being held off the floor like some kind of barrier between the two arguing mechs, “I’ve got a place we can stash him while you two sort this out.” His midriff popped open. A draft of hot air wafted out as his smelter switched to high gear, and Ambulon began kicking.

“No!” His hands flexed helplessly, pinned to his sides, but he managed to turn his head back to appeal to the Decepticon holding him. “Please let me down. Please, I-I want -- “ he didn’t, he really didn’t, but given his options right now? He forced a swallow through throat tubing gone stiff with terror. “I-I mean, Ph-Pharma and I c-can, um, can. Uh.” They could make out and frag right here on the floor. They really could. Ambulon would be happy to, if it’d buy him time.

Because faced with that open smelter, he found that he would do absolutely anything to save his own life.

Unfortunately for Ambulon, Tesarus truly did have a short attention span. “Oo, melty time.”

“ **NopleaseohPrimusdon’tplease** \-- “

“There’s nothing to sort out. He’s interrupting something he **asked** for.” Pharma shifted his weight to look to the side at Helex. “Mech’s got no sense.”

Helex gave the surgeon a bland look and decided not to get in the middle of this little tiff. He shook his head and looked at his fellow Decepticon. “Just swing him over here, Terasus.”

“ -- **easeno _no_ heeeelp** \--“

Tesarus’ distinctive red optical array could glare like no other. “You’re picking a fight with the wrong mech, doc -- waaah, slaghead’s a kicker.”

“You realize what his altmode is, right? All the traitor’s got going for him is his legs. Of course he’s a kicker.”

“ -- **rimusohPrimusohPrimusohPrimusoh** \--“

“Oh, what,” Pharma needled, “you’re going to fight a mech with no hands? I can see you’re interested in a fair fight.”

Helex was trying to catch the desperately thrashing legs kicking at him. Even with four hands, this was a difficult task. Ambulon was, indeed, a kicker. “Stop that, you fragger. Get in here!”

“Fair fights are overrated, anyway,” Tesarus dismissed the surgeon, waving a hand as he turned all of his attention to the traitor refusing to be quietly stuffed into Helex. “Will you just go in already? Look, I promise, the melting’s not half-bad compared to what Kaon’s gonna do to you afterward.”

Somehow, that failed to calm the flailing mech down any. “Pharma, will you **shut** the **frag up** , get over here, and **_kiss me already!_** ” Ambulon shrieked almost incoherently, still kicking for all he was worth.

“Pushy.”

Pharma turned to give an irritated look to the Decepticon who’d just transformed to tower over him. “Yes, well, that’s how you like them, and don’t try and pretend otherwise.” He strode forward confidently while Tarn’s optics were still wide with surprise. The mouth behind the purple mask worked silently, unable to produce a comeback.

The other D.J.D. members abruptly found the floor and ceiling just _fascinating_. Look at those walls. How interesting. They were all stifling smirks at their leader’s expense. Even Vos was looking intently up at the ceiling, eerie mask somehow conveying absolute interest in studying its every detail.

The Autobot flyer took advantage of Tarn’s dumbfoundment and the not-sniggering going on among the other Decepticons. He reached up and knocked a wrist on Tesarus’ feeder arm, resetting his vocalizer pointedly. “I believe that’s my employee you’re trying to smelt. I’d like him back, if you please.”

“You really are glitched, medic,” Helex said, almost in admiration. A muffled cough that could have been _‘pushy, too’_ came from Tesarus, but Helex kept a straight face. He looked at the feet braced on either side of his open smelter door and heaved a dramatic sigh. “Fine. I suppose I can wait.”

Ambulon didn’t relax in the slightest. The arms holding him were still pushing. In fact, they gave an extra shove as if hoping he’d slip. “ **Pharma!** ”

That got a severe frown directed at Tesarus. It was the same frown First Aid used to get when he shirked duty on the release dates for new issues of that torrid _’Wreckers Unclassified’_ trash. Fanbot nurses and evil Decepticons apparently earned the same amount of disapproval from Pharma. “Put. Him. **Down.** ” Bad Decepticon; be good, or no nookie.

Tesarus all but stuck his tongue out at the fuming surgeon. His arms gave little push-push motions, trying to make Ambulon’s feet slip. “A little melting’ll warm him up for you.”

“No no no, plenty warm!” yelped from the frightened ‘bot.

“He’s fine.”

“Motivation,” Tesarus argued. Push-push, pause, push-push.

“I’m motivated!” One of Ambulon’s feet slipped against Helex’s glass door, and it wasn’t like the walking smelter was going to object if the traitor just _happened_ to end up inside. The tip of Ambulon’s foot caught on the metal cross-brace on the glass. “Lots of motivation, here!”

“I do not -- ” Tarn growled, finally recovering some of his thoroughly lost dignity.

“Yes you do,” Pharma interrupted him with the impatient air of a surgeon putting up with a particularly slow set of assistants. He never took his irritated glare off of Tesarus. “If he gets any more motivated, he’s going to assault me. Now put him down, or I’m leaving.”

Tarn sputtered. Tesarus scowled. Helex outright laughed. Ambulon gave his ex-boss the most wide-opticked look of shock ever. Apparently getting tossed to the D.J.D. by someone who’d betrayed him once already was surprising.

Welcome to reality, where a mech looked out for his own skidplate first. Pharma waited a moment, then spun on a heel to brush past Tarn and huffily exit the room. “Be that way.”

“Noooo!” Ambulon wailed.

“Noooo!” Tesarus’ wail hit nearly the same pitch. “I want a show!”

“Then you should have thought of that before interrupting!” the medic yelled back over one shoulder as he stormed down the corridor.

Ambulon knew this because Tesarus lumbered out of the cell in pursuit, still holding his prisoner out in front of himself like a trophy. Or an offering, which was more what the ex-Decepticon felt like while being pushed at Pharma’s back. His ex-boss’ wings were stiff with offended dignity. Ambulon’s arms were clamped to his sides by the machine arm-hands restraining him, but he torqued his wrist joints to make little grabbing motions at those wings, trying to get a handhold.

That he would never, ever let go because dear holy Primus, “Pharma, please don’t leave me here! Help me!” Ambulon’s fans screamed thinly inside his vents, at their highest setting but still not dispersing the heat of terror.

“I’m not going to waste my time,” the surgeon grumbled without bothering to slow his pace. “They’re only going to rip you apart when this oaf,” an arm gestured back in lieu of a thumb being jerked at Tesarus, “gets bored again. I estimate a maximum of two kliks, knowing his attention span.”

That was _not_ helping Ambulon’s shattered nerves. “But -- !”

“I’m not that bad!” Tesarus protested at the same time.

“No?” Pharma stopped abruptly, making the Decepticon sidestep nearly into the wall to dodge him as he whirled to confront the much bulkier mech. Ambulon squeaked as his hand swept right over red and white metal. His fingers grabbed too late. “Prove it,” was snarled in Tesarus’ face. Pharma stepped forward, crowding the Decepticon. “Set him down and **leave** him down, and I’ll give you your show.”

“But…” The larger mech seemed taken aback, still holding Ambulon in front of Pharma as if that would make the two Autobots start kissing. “It’s my job to pick him up.” His captive made a tremulous noise of wibbling fear as there was a _schiiiing_ of self-sharpening blades.

The jet’s main turbine spun impatiently. He used one arm to shove his whimpering ex-employee out of the way so he could take that last step forward and glare straight up at Tesarus. “Not if the agreement is to let him live in return for providing your,” his lip curled, “show.”

“Letting him live doesn’t mean I can’t do my job,” the walking grinder pointed out reasonably.

Pharma threw up both arms and knocked his amputated wrist against the tunnel rim in exasperation. “This! This is why I’m not going to bother!”

“Aw, c’mon,” Tesarus whined. “I’ll leave him mostly intact!”

“That’s not the point!” The medic looked about ready to start yelling. Instead, he just knocked his wrist against the much larger mech again.

The red ‘X’ optical array looked forlornly between Autobots. “…just the feet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, for Primus’ sake…” Pharma bared his teeth and sucked in a deep vent as if to calm himself. He set one truncated arm against his hip, and the other came up to rub his helm crest. If he had hands, he’d have been pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do I really need to explain how incredibly **not** sexy I find amputees?”

“That’s not necessary.”

The jet didn’t even online his optics. “I don’t mean **you** , Kaon. That’s another realm of unattractive altogether. I am referring to the fact that I don’t want a screaming, blubbering torture victim as a lover!”

That got a smile out of Kaon, who leaned against the wall behind him as if overseeing the argument. “I’d resent that ‘unattractive’ remark if I didn’t know you’d call me something worse.”

“We could mute him,” Tesarus suggested hopefully.

Forget yelling. That’d make his processor-ache worse. Pharma’s optics lit up, blue rimmed with white, and he glared up at the hulking buffoon holding his former ward manager hostage. “You. Are missing. The point.”

While the two mechs -- and then three, because it seemed the other D.J.D. members were trickling into the corridor to join them -- quarreled, Ambulon’s hand continued to grope for the closest wing. He could barely touch it with one finger. Biting his lip, the Autobot strained as hard as he could. Two fingers. He caught the very edge between them and tried to hold on.

“ **Enough.** ” Tarn’s voice vibrated the corridor walls, it boomed so low and loud.

Pharma stiffened, turning to face down the hallway with his optics popping wide. His ex-employee took the opportunity presented by alarm-flared wings to get a full handhold on the wing he’d been pinching. Ambulon pulled as best he was able, which wasn’t much. The surgeon ignored the tugging in favor of more pressing matters. Intakes pulled in air sharply as even the other Decepticons shut up.

The leader of the D.J.D. stalked down the hall toward the knot of arguing mechs, and his disapproval thrummed inside their sparks. “We are not **bargaining** over the List. Ambulon earned his place on it by betraying our Lord and our Cause, and no clever word-twisting,” here he narrowed his optics at his pet-jet, “will take him off it again. He dies.”

That was pronounced with a finality that accepted no excuses. The other Decepticons grumbled faintly but shrugged it off. Tesarus hadn’t been the only one intrigued by the idea and teaser of an Autobot-on-Autobot show, but Tarn had spoken. So their leader said, so it would be. Kind of a shame, but…meh. They’d get their show another way, even if it involved less sexy medic action.

Except that Ambulon hadn’t spent half the war running from the D.J.D. without learning a few tricks. Uh, even if he hadn’t ever thought these particular tricks were applicable. Well, never let it be said that he couldn’t improvise.

Pharma had just enough time to look down in shock before the legs wrapped around his waist yanked him sideways. Ambulon still didn’t have his arms free, but like the Pit was he letting go of the one handhold he’d gotten. Between pulling on one red-and-white wing and squeezing his legs as hard as he could, Pharma wasn’t going anywhere until someone pried Ambulon loose.

They’d have to peel away his mouth, too. He didn’t know if Pharma was only playing with his life or had genuinely been trying to save him from Tesarus all along, but the taller Autobot didn’t fight him. He turned willingly enough to meet energon-smeared lips halfway, and their mouths crashed together again. Ambulon shut his optics off and poured everything he had into that kiss. He kissed his ex-boss like his life depended on it, like the universe began and ended with him, like he could only breath the air taken from Pharma’s mouth, like only the slick slide of their tongues between them could convey how very, very badly Ambulon wanted to live. There were no romantic notions. This was the reality of how much one mech didn’t want to die.

He curled his tongue, trying to somehow lock it around Pharma’s and not let go, but it just shifted the angle of their mouths so their lips parted briefly. That brought their faces together at the wrong angle, snubbing their noses and forcing their mouths apart. The two Autobots gasped simultaneously, optics blinking on to stare at each other face to face, noses still touching. Pharma seemed a little taken aback. Ambulon’s tongue darted out to nervously lick the energon off his lower lip as he looked at his ex-boss.

The machine arms holding him suddenly released, and Ambulon yipped as the only things left supporting him were the legs he’d wrapped around Pharma’s waist. Freed arms flailed for a handhold as the the flyer staggered under his weight. The sturdy ward manager might have only been three-fourths the surgeon’s size, but their mass was almost equal due to different altmodes. Ambulon didn’t have interior spaces; he was _compact_ compared to the lighter alloys of the taller mech. Pharma’s arms caught the shorter Autobot as well he could, but the missing hands meant that he could only awkwardly support the mech by bring one knee up under his aft until Ambulon got a grip on him.

He glared over Ambulon’s head at the grinning Decepticon who’d dropped the mech on him. “What do you think you’re **doing** , you moronic -- “

“Oh, Primus, don’t you ever **stop**?” Ambulon groaned. He was already clinging to the larger Autobot, but now he all but plastered himself around the jet, hips rocking forward. He writhed, rubbing himself in an outright obscene way against cockpit and colored metal. His hands roamed and slid behind his ex-boss’ neck to grip firmly and _pull_. “Shut **up** , sir!”

Pharma blinked, startled either by the title Ambulon had automatically addressed him by or the boldness of the grinding, and found himself in yet another Jaws of Life liplock. A crowbar would be needed to pry the ex-Decepticon off him at this rate. “Mmmph!”

He bent back slightly under the invasive kiss, and the hands on his helm and the back of his neck dragged him deeper into it. A tongue desperately coaxed his own to come play. Ankles locked at the small of his back under his main turbine, and Ambulon gave another frenzied, twisting squirm that rubbed in all the right places. Pharma grunted another incoherent noise and used an arm under the mech’s aft to boost him a smidgen higher. It slid Ambulon’s lips off his for just a second.

Pharma used that second to change the angle. Frag no, was he going to be the passive one, here. He got enough of that from the blasted Decepticons!

“Don’t tell **me** to shut up,” he growled.

Then the surgeon bent forward, reversing their tilt as he recovered his balance and confidence in one fell swoop. He nipped at the impudent tongue trying to stroke his own and chased it back into Ambulon’s mouth to lithely probe all the crannies where sensor nodes and chemical receptors were hidden. The surprised little _‘eep!’_ he got tasted quite pleasant, especially when he plundered a second sound closer to a moan from the mech’s mouth a moment later. The lips sliding against his were chipped and dented, but warm and receptive to anything, anything at all that would save their owner. Ambulon kissed him back with all the passion of a condemned mech offered a stay of execution.

Not surprising, since that’s what this was.

He didn’t have hands, but that didn’t keep him from running the dull edge of his wrist up his ex-employee’s back. He knew what Ambulon was supposed to have been. The altmode that the ex-Decepticon hated made his shape an exotic puzzle to those who didn’t know what he was, but Pharma had studied the design specs of all his employees. This one in particular, as Ambulon had approached him about potential surgical modifications to change the redundant gestalt framework into medical mods. He knew where the vulnerable spots lay closest to the surface.

Ambulon jolted, vocalizer squawking involuntary reaction as the amputated wedge of Pharma’s wrist joint slipped between armor plating to stroke sensor nodes with clinically precise pressure. Pharma’s lips curved against his in a smirk. The ward manager jolted again and made a garbled sound into his mouth, halfway confused by the pleasure streaking up and down his back struts in hot flares through his sensor network. It wasn’t something the terrified mech thought he could feel, not right here or now, yet Pharma was painstakingly plinking the edge of his wrist against any sensor node he could reach.

When the surgeon finally eased back, no longer trying to do exploratory surgery via their mouths, Ambulon’s optics were actually a bit dazed. There were also a lot of fans running in the corridor, and most of them didn’t belong to the two Autobots making out.

“Well. Alright, then,” Pharma murmured, listening to the sounds of aroused systems. He knew each individual sound well, despite how he loathed that knowledge. His optics were calculating as they glanced slyly past Ambulon’s helm. He could use this. The red stares they were receiving were on the edge of mindless lust. Just a bit more, and not even Tarn would demand they stop.

He turned slightly, using the excuse that he was shifting his weight, and tightened his grip. He could buy his former employee some time, at least.

Ambulon made small noises of misery and pleading as his ex-boss kissed him again, this time sliding their mouths together in something less urgent but more heated. He stubbornly kept his legs clamped around the taller mech, but a few pointed prods made him reluctantly unlock his ankles. His hands flexed uncertainly, sliding down to hold onto the jet’s shoulders as he was moved slightly. He didn’t want to let go. He could never be safe here, but he was saf _er_ attached to Pharma.

The arm under his aft remained steady, however. Pharma didn’t seem intent on dislodging him, just…shifting him. He tried to mumble a question, but it got lost when the surgeon tilted his head and surged back into the kiss the moment his mouth opened. Pharma’s tongue speared the question out of the back of his mouth and swallowed it down.

To his embarrassment, he realized that the taller Autobot was rearranging him very deliberately. The way he kept turning showed off flashes of Ambulon’s inner thigh, and the arm boosting him up made his aft hang out in a manner that would be _most_ wanton under any other circumstances. Pharma never stood still, shifting his weight from hip to hip and using Ambulon as a counterweight. It made the ex-Decepticon continually shift to keep his balance as he held onto Pharma’s shoulders. That resulted in a writhing grind against the jet’s cockpit, and their pelvic plating almost sang as the metal edges scraped together.

And the handless mech kept _kissing_ him. It was wet and messy, oral fluids exchanging back and forth in a way that would probably be disgusting if Ambulon weren’t having sensors he didn’t even know were active stroked to full measure by the tip of Pharma’s tongue. Every time a grinding whirr or low comment started to make his tanks bottom out again, the flat of that tongue roughly rubbed in and out over his front dental molds, thrusting lewdly as Pharma tipped their helms this way and that. The surgeon drew away and plunged back in, provoking small sounds of surprise and a few breathy grunts as Ambulon’s tongue found itself engaged again and again.

It probably looked quite alluring if short glimpses of twining tongues were what turned a mech on. Primus, Ambulon hoped so. He really hoped so.

Because what he was trying not to think about, what Pharma’s kiss wasn’t distracting him enough from, was the fact that they were surrounded by a psycho killer Decepticon death squad out for his vital fluids. And his back --

His back was against --

Pharma’s mouth muffled the sound Ambulon made. It sounded the way regurgitated half-processed fuel tasted, and the surgeon sneered as he broke the kiss at last. Hands frantically tugged at his shoulders, trying to bring him back. Yellow optics stared frantically at him, pleading, but he abruptly let his ex-employee go.

“Pharma!” Ambulon yelped and scrambled, but even without hands, a shove to the chest was a shove to the chest. The smaller ‘bot nearly fell flat on his aft. He just barely managed to catch himself with an exceedingly awkward twist. An exotic dancer would have envied the move if he’d intentionally been trying to hump Tarn’s leg that way.

Ambulon ended up in the universe’s most terrified pose, wrapped partway around the leg of his soon-to-be torturer. “Um.”

The tiny, frightened gleep was ignored. “Here,” Pharma ordered Tarn, who looked like he’d gotten smacked in the mask by a cluebat, “hold this.”

He gave his former employee a brisk push even as Ambulon attempted to straighten up and scoot away from the leader of the D.J.D. Giant purple hands clamped down on much smaller shoulders automatically, and Ambulon froze like a frightened petrorabbit. There was another, more incoherent peep of scared sound.

“Good.” Pharma nodded approval as he stepped back enough to give the assembled Decepticons an assessing look. Fans were roaring. A grinder whirred hungrily, and Helex’s smelter was bubbling. The surgeon could hear Vos’ trigger repeatedly clicking from here. The whole group looked like they’d suddenly seen the light about letting this victim of the List live a while longer, which was good. That was according to plan.

That left the small matter of the one mech who couldn’t see any show Ambulon put on. Fortunately, Pharma had a solution for that problem.

“Kaon, come here. I need a set of hands, and you’re it.” The surgeon gestured theatrically for the other Decepticons’ benefit, since the one he was beckoning certainly couldn’t see it.

That got a stir of interest with dark overtones. Dark, perverted overtones. The Decepticons’ collective EM fields swirled sinister intent around Ambulon, strong as only large mechs’ electromagnetic output could be. The hands on his shoulders pulsed anger, intrigued interest, and a greedy sort of hunger that made the Autobot feel like a toy about to be roughly -- possibly fatally -- played with. Since that was an entirely accurate assessment, he just stood quietly and tried to keep his knees from knocking together. His yellow optics followed his ex-boss from under the crest of his helm, and he tried not to wince when the Decepticon sporting electrical mods came forward.

This could not be good. Not for him.

“Oh?” Kaon smirked slightly at both medics. “You find me unattractive save for my hands, Autobot?”

“No, I find you entirely unattractive, but you’re a convenient height,” Pharma grumbled. “Vos can’t speak NeoCybex for slag -- which reminds me, you owe me homework,” he snapped sidelong at the unobtrusive mech Ambulon _hadn’t even noticed sidling up to him_. The ex-Decepticon spasmed in sudden panic, but the creepy mech beside him seemed resigned. Vos nodded acceptance to Pharma’s continued bitching of, “Four verbs, used correctly **with** pronouns and repeated **without** dragging the vowels out forever and an age!”

“Demanding little ‘bot, isn’t he?” the giant walking smelter said from the other side, conversational but snickering all the same.

The purple hands on his shoulders tightened painfully as Tarn seemed to wake up from whatever pleasant stall he’d fallen into. Ambulon winced but didn’t dare protest the compression on his shoulder armor. “Pharma,” the rich voice purred from behind him. “Come here.”

The medic looked over his shoulder from where he’d been speaking with Kaon, gesticulating somewhat randomly, and his optics were wide. His confidence wobbled for a second before recovering just as quickly, and blue optics narrowed back to annoyed slits. Primus, Ambulon envied that mech his confidence when surrounded by murderous Decepticons!

“Ah…in a moment,” Pharma said with a dismissive wave of one hand.

“I said,” this time Ambulon jerked and choked out a scream as his spark _seized_ in his chest, “ **come here**.”

The surgeon eyed his shrieking fellow Autobot. The ward manager clawed at Tarn’s hands but couldn’t escape, and Pharma heaved a sigh to cover how he immediately turned to walk over. He stood before the D.J.D.’s leader, lips twisting in a cynical frown. Not that he ultimately expected this to end otherwise, but, “You’re going to break him.”

“He is not the one you should be worried about,” Tarn growled, shoving Ambulon forward.

Pharma _‘oof’_ ed slightly as the other Autobot stumbled headfirst into his cockpit. Ambulon burrowed closer, his spark aching with after-echos that were enough to have his arms around his ex-boss in an instant, hugging him around the waist. He silently shivered as the massive tank and much smaller flyer argued over his head.

“Your continued assumption of your freedom grows tiresome, Pharma. You owe your continued existence,” one giant purple hand reached out to delicately capture the surgeon’s chin, “to me. Failure to remember that fact may prove…painful.”

Said on a different note, the word caused the surgeon to flinch this time. The forearm that had been absentmindedly smoothing over the mech clinging to him jolted as his spark skipped in his chest. The intense borderline pleasure-pain caused his systems to rush. With his audio pressed to the surgeon’s chest as it was, Ambulon couldn’t help but hear that. The ward manager whimpered, holding on tighter.

Pharma’s voice came out strained but still arrogant as he said, “I’m very well aware of my…debt, Tarn. I’m **also** aware of how far you are **pushing** that fact.” He scowled, not fighting the hold on his chin. In fact, he barely seemed to acknowledge it. It was either his innate ability to be completely in control, or complete denial of the facts of this situation. Either way, right now? Ambulon rather envied him. “Medical services are understandable, but language lessons are below my skill set.” His optics flared angrily. “And don’t even bother trying to defend what **you** do to me. If you are laboring under the mistaken impression that what you do to me is consensual, then let me remind you that manipulating my spark does not make me actually desire to interface with you. It just makes me want to interface!”

“Of that,” Tarn purred, pulling his pet-jet closer, “I am well aware. Let me assure you that the difference is no mistake on my part.” His voice cascaded through both Autobots, plucking their sparks playfully. It was the same sort of playfulness that led to games like _’What Knuckle Will Give First?’_

The Decepticon Justice Division was just full of fun and games, games and fun. Such giggles and glee did the members indulge in.

Arms tightened defensively around the latest disposable toy of the D.J.D., but it was debatable who was clinging to whom. “Of course,” Pharma sneered back at his own personal tormentor. “I can’t imagine anyone interfacing with you voluntarily. It’s not surprising in the least that you find rape the better option.”

“Rape? Is it rape when you beg me to frag you?” Tarn bent closer, balancing Pharma’s chin on one finger. “You generally do.”

“I repeat,” the surgeon said coldly, nearly spitting icicles into the Decepticon’s face. “Spark. Manipulation. Is not. **Consensual**.”

Stuck between them, Ambulon clung like a burr to his ex-boss. Apparently Pharma had almost as little power in this situation as a prisoner, but that still put him far above a victim of the List. The poor traitor was desperate enough to take any protection, any at all. He was going to stay here, quiet and small, and pray he’d be overlooked just a while longer.

No such luck.

“Since this is our show,” the tank said, having a mock epiphany, “I believe I shall claim director’s rights. Hmm. Come here, little player.”

That earned a disgusted glare, but Pharma yanked his chin out of Tarn’s hold and pushed at his mech-barnacle’s arms with his stumps. “Perverted, filthy-minded, lecherous basta -- oh, let go. Let **go** , Ambulon.” His voice lowered even as he sternly rapped his ex-employee’s helm with one wrist. “You do **not** want to be attached to me right now.” His EM field pushed into Ambulon, radiating the same grim determination surgeries had once brought out in him. This was a task to be completed.

Ambulon hesitantly loosened his arms. He _knew_ better than to trust anyone who’d have manufactured a virus to kill him, but…Primus help him, the only thing he could _do_ was trust Pharma. What other options did he have left? A suicidal attack that -- would accomplish less than nothing, as he was unarmed and surrounded by experienced fighters. Such an attempt would likely serve to start the torture.

“What…what should I do?” he whispered.

Blue optics flicked down before returning to Tarn. “Whatever you’re told.”

There was a sick emphasis on the first word, and Ambulon got the hint. Pharma didn’t want to be here, either, doing any of this, but yet he was. Survival wasn’t a pretty thing. The ward manager stood trembling as Pharma stepped around him and into Tarn’s waiting hands, head held high.

That left Ambulon facing the electrical-modded Decepticon, who seemed to be amused by the whole affair.

“Come here, traitor,” Kaon ordered lightly. “Vos has something he’d like to say to you.”

Do what he’s told, do what he’s told, _do what he’s told_.

Ambulon shuffled forward, nervously looking between the two smallest Decepticons in the corridor. They were still a head taller than him, and immeasurably more deadly. He knew who they were, and he knew what they could do. The D.J.D.’s broadcasted educational executions made sure of _that_. So, yes, Ambulon’s terror was quite justified.

Kaon’s amusement wasn’t reassuring in the least, and Vos…Vos had a non-expression that was sending chills up his back. The slim mech’s optics were a dead black that was as creepy as Kaon’s missing optics, in the Autobot’s considered opinion. There were pinpricks of red in the back of the scientist’s optics. It made sense, if the mech’s whole face were nothing but a mask he occasionally pulled off and made others wear.

Ambulon really didn’t want to think about that. He really, _really_ didn’t want to get any closer.

That wasn’t his choice, however. The blind Decepticon curled a finger, smirking. “Closer, traitor. It’s not like you can escape, anyway.”

He didn’t need the reminder. It only spiked the terror quivering under his armor, and considering Kaon’s speciality, he was certain the electrical mech could feel the change in his electromagnetic energy. Swallowing thickly, Ambulon forced himself close enough that the two Decepticons could reach out and touch him, if they wished.

Which Kaon did, causing the smaller ‘bot to flinch wildly. The Decepticon just smirked wider and patted him on the head like he did his pet turbofox. It would be fun introducing the two: sparkeater and traitor. Then again, it was always fun listening to the screaming. It wouldn’t kill Ambulon right away, not unless the traitor was tied down and opened up for a while, allowing the infected Pet to chew as much as it liked.

He pinged the others with the idea. It was an interesting work-around if Tarn decided to let things progress. Technically, letting the Pet have the traitor wouldn’t violate the deal Pharma had brokered. Actually, finding loopholes could be a torture in and of itself. The Decepticons sent a flurry of pings, snickering amongst themselves. Let Tarn indulge his pet-jet. They could keep themselves amused if he decided to allow the deal.

In the meantime, Ambulon could serve a concrete purpose. “Listen closely, traitor, and obey,” Kaon commanded, resting his hand on the Autobot’s helm. The mech winced, trying to evade his touch without moving. “Vos?”

The slender Decepticon circled around their shivering victim, seeming to study him from every angle. The expressionless mask was a sharp, horrid contrast to how sadism dripped off his EM field. When he was satisfied that he’d thoroughly unnerved Ambulon, he stopped and took a menacing step into the traitor’s personal space, almost touching him. The small medic didn’t dare move out from under Kaon’s hand, but his head turned involuntarily. Terrified yellow optics fixed on the scientist. Oh, yes, Ambulon was listening closely.

Vos reset his vocalizer and said, “Get oooon ooo kneeeesss.”

A high-pitched whimper came from the Autobot, and Ambulon dropped to his knees.

Unfortunately, Pharma had been listening as well. “What the -- that was horrible. It’s ‘your’ not ‘ooo,’” he snapped from behind Ambulon, emphasizing the ‘y’ and ‘r’ sounds. “And what did I say about using pronouns? Do it again!”

Kaon cocked his head down at the kneeling Autobot. “You heard him. Stand up.”

If it were possible for Ambulon’s humiliation to compete with his fear, this was the moment of truth. Yellow optics shut off briefly as shame put up a good fight. Dying with dignity intact sounded courageous and like what an Autobot should do, but anyone who’d ever seen the D.J.D.’s broadcasts knew that none of the List died with anything intact. Dignity, courage, bodily functions -- all of it was stripped away by the time they were finished with a mech.

Behind him, there was a murmur too low to hear. Pharma moaned loudly in response. The sound bit off in the middle into an irritated curse.

Ambulon scrambled to his feet. Kaon’s hand rested, mock-gently, on his helm again.

Vos looked blankly, _creepily_ , at the mech shivering at attention before him. A put-upon huff came from the scientist, but he gave it another go. “Yooou get ooon **yourrr** kneeesss.”

The ward manager swallowed his pride and folded to the floor again.

Thrusters ground online, turning against the floor, but annoyance burned stronger than arousal. For the moment, anyway. “Stop dragging your slagging vowels! **Again** ,” Pharma demanded. “Nnngh -- Tarn! Will you cut that ou -- ohhh…” The murmur became a hum that choked the makeshift language teacher’s righteous wrath.

Kaon look vaguely amused by the byplay, but Vos was beginning to look frustrated. “Alright,” the electrical Decepticon said, smiling a bit. “Stand.” Kaon carelessly beckoned one hand upward, and the Autobot at his feet shot up again.

Vos took another step closer, close enough to vent on the poor mech. Ambulon cringed, feet glued to the floor but entire upper body leaning away as that disturbing mask almost touched the side of his face. “You get on your kneesss,” was hissed up-close and personal.

Ambulon’s knees gave out, but it wasn’t necessarily because they’d been ordered to. Vos’ frametype didn’t have his bulk or density, but then again, Vos didn’t need either of those to reduce Ambulon to his component parts.

“Better,” Pharma conceded. “Now conjugate theaaahhh…ah. _Ah!_ Conjugate the verb.”

“Heee -- “ Vos interrupted himself with a blurt of words that sounded familiar. The language fell somewhere between binary and something Ambulon strongly thought that he should recognize. The tone, at least, was easy to translate. That was frustration.

Ambulon’s hands curled on the floor. Please, please let that frustration be directed elsewhere. Frustration was bad.

Helex and Kaon laughed, Pharma scoffed, and the slender Decepticon tried again. “He getssss -- **gets** ,” the verb came out clipped as Vos corrected himself, “on hisss kneesss.”

“Did he?” Kaon’s smirk ticked wider yet. “I don’t know. Did you get on your knees, traitor?”

There was an awkward pause before said traitor figured out that he was supposed to answer. Which he did, because dignity was a privilege of the free. “Yes,” he whispered hoarsely.

Vos made a supremely displeased noise, but the weird part was when Pharma slurred, “S’not…tha’ssohhh…that’s not the right -- **Nngh!** Structure! Answer in the -- _ahhh_ frag, don’t **ah!** Fragging glitch-ridd **en** nnuh. Ah. Answer i-in the right sentence structure.” The humming rose and fell, and Pharma’s stuttered little noises picked up with the change in pitch.

It took him a painfully long moment to understand what that meant. When he finally did, Ambulon looked down at the floor and shut off his optics, concentrating on just…forcing the words out. Pride had no purpose, here and now. “Yes, I got on my knees.”

The pitch in the humming rose steeply, and Pharma was making undignified gasping sounds. Ambulon huddled closer to the floor.

Vos slowly sounded out, “Theeey get on theirrr kneesss.”

“They usually do,” one of the behemoths snickered. Ambulon had no idea which it was, and he wasn’t looking up to find out. If Tesarus picked him up again, he was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from screaming hysterically. “Not bad, Vos.”

“It is a distinct improvement,” Tarn agreed from behind him. “Well done, Vos. But further language practice can wait. I do want to see this show get started.” His tone promised consequences if the promised show didn’t happen, and the kneeling Autobot shuddered. “Ambulon,” his voice turned the name into an intimate caress of the traitor’s spark, making Ambulon squeak in surprise, “come here.”

Kaon made an unnecessary gesture upward. The Autobot had already started to climb to his feet, well aware that obedience meant the difference between torture or delay. The blind Decepticon caught him by one shoulder, turning him around and roughly pushing him toward the leader of the D.J.D. Ambulon tripped over his own feet but followed the shove. He would be so obedient, he would, just please...

He looked up and stumbled again, this time in shock.

Held before Tarn by his wings like a prize, Pharma bled heat. His fans spun on high, venting hot air and sucking in cooler air, but it wasn’t enough. His systems were thoroughly riled. The voice that had been crooning to his spark had it spinning frantically, sending surges of energy throughout him.

That didn’t mean he had to _like_ it. Blue optics were over-bright, but the jet had his jaw clenched tight against further sounds. He stayed silent even when purple fingers gently tweaked his wingtips, although discerning viewers might have noticed his knee joints buckle just slightly. Tarn was one such viewer; he gave the wingtips another, harder tweak, and his little medic arched, optics flaring white.

The moan that escaped gritted teeth would have been enough to get Ambulon’s fans whirring under any other circumstances. Circumstances that didn’t involve Tesarus standing right beside Tarn with his grinder making happy noises. Grinders should not make happy noises. The ex-Decepticon faltered, and only another shove got him those final few steps toward his ex-boss.

Tarn looked down at the trembling traitor over Pharma’s head and _tsk-tsk_ ed. “Hmm, no. No, I liked you better before. You belong on your knees.”

Ambulon bleakly stared up at him and dropped to his knees. It wasn’t like he had a choice.

“The obedience is kind of an improvement,” Helex commented with a pointed look to the Autobot surgeon still struggling to stand defiant in Tarn’s hands. The walking smelter approved of instant obedience. Traitors and Autobots should know their places.

“Pretty.” Tesarus grinned down at the kneeling ‘bot. The other D.J.D. members looked at him, seeming a bit surprised, and the living grinder shrugged. “What? I like my mechs disheveled. Look at how he tried to paint over his Decepticon colors.” He crouched down and poked a finger at the traitor’s shoulder, where the white had chipped away. Ambulon tucked himself inward as best he could and stared fixedly at the floor. Tesarus poked him again, grinning at the flinch he got with every touch. “What a mess. It’s kind of cute, in a pathetic way. He tried so hard to erase his past, but here he is.” He picked at the chipped paint, revealing more purple.

A chilling, shadowy chuckle came from -- frag, right beside Ambulon, and the ex-Decepticon winced violently as he realized Vos had once again slipped close without him noticing. Another blurt of words in that half-familiar language had the rest of the Decepticons nodding thoughtfully. Ambulon shivered like a fear-petrified petrorabbit when the creepy mech reached down and picked at some of the peeling paint on his back. Strangely enough, it didn’t seem malicious. More words, and the mask-faced Decepticon almost absently pet the kneeling traitor on the helm.

“Poetic,” Tarn said, still nodding. He seemed to be agreeing with whatever Vos had just said. “’Only the unworthy’ is a way to -- ”

“Unworthy my skidplate,” Pharma interrupted, optics flashing with fury and frustrated arousal. “If mechs were ‘unworthy’ of belonging to a faction, there’d be paint peels all over the floor right now. **You** aren’t worthy to belong to a junkyard!” He shook his shoulders angrily, but Tarn had his wings caught. The leader of the D.J.D. looked down at him, red optics glowing behind that impassive purple mask, and Pharma craned his head back to sneer directly up at him. “It’s not about whether or not his inherent treasonous nature shows through -- it’s the quality of the blasted paint he keeps using!”

Cruel hands twisted, and a well-tuned vocalizer hummed disapproving for his impudence. Pharma’s leg struts somehow went from metal to rubber as the surgeon resumed stifling moans. He hung by his wings and made small, deliciously involuntary noises. Tesarus stood up and observed closely, although Tarn shook his head when one hand ventured out as if to join the fun.

Ambulon really didn’t want to look up, but the hand that had been patting his helm now forced his face upward. Kaon and Vos both looked down at him expectantly. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but he could guess. It was times like this he wished he had a diplomatic bolt somewhere in his body.

“I…the colors I like are only available in the wrong paint type?” he offered meekly. He hurriedly tacked on, “I can repaint myself other colors. Uh. Wh-whatever colors you want.”

“I doubt you’ll live long enough to need a repaint,” Tarn rumbled, and the D.J.D.’s latest victim cringed before him. Vos made Ambulon turn to face the red optics now turned on him. “Come here, traitor. I want to see this show I’ve been promised.”

Ambulon shuffled closer on his knees, arms crossed protectively over himself. Not that hugging himself did anything but make him look like an idiot. It wouldn’t help in any way, but it did make him feel slightly less exposed. He had the horrid feeling that any limbs that strayed might get put through a grinder.

“What do you w-want me to do?” he asked timidly when he was practically nose-to-thigh with Pharma. He didn’t know what would turn the D.J.D. on. He figured that asking what these sadists wanted to see was his best bet at this point.

A moment and a gruesome verbal picture later, and the traitor retracted that thought. Asking was bad. He was never asking again.

By the time Tarn finished translating Vos’ wishlist of things the scientist wanted their captive to do, Ambulon’s optics were fitzing around the edges where the frames had strained beyond their recommended limits. Hugging himself had turned to clutching his ex-boss’ leg like a talisman. His hands pawed upward, searching for a cable hatch. Pharma was a medical frametype, so he had enough interface cables to operate on three different surgery tables at once. Ambulon just needed one, please and thank you, but he needed it _right fragging now_.

“No hands,” Helex ordered suddenly, optics narrowing in satisfaction at the ex-Decepticon’s mad scramble.

Ambulon looked up at him, panicking. Did he mean the obvious about Pharma, or -- ?

“Oh, yeah, I could get behind that idea,” Tesarus agreed enthusiastically. “You. Traitor. Use your mouth!”

…or that, yes.

Ambulon lowered his optics and nodded, because what else could he do? This was for the D.J.D.’s pleasure, not his own. He put his hands down on the top of his thighs and leaned back into the jet again.

It wasn’t all that difficult to lip at the catch for Pharma’s main interface hatch. The kneeling mech buried his face against his ex-boss’ thigh and tongued the groin hatch open, hooking it with his tongue-tip until the manual catch gave way. After that, it was easy to tease the cable tip out to capture in his mouth. Extremely, excruciatingly conscious of the fact that it’d gotten an abrupt hike in the fan rates throughout the hall, he took his time reeling the cord out as he sat back on his heels. He played with the tip, letting his tongue push it partway out of his mouth before sucking it back in with an audible _pop_. It clicked against his teeth, sparking lightly, and he tossed his head to make the cable swing a bit.

Tesarus’ torso-tunnel gave that disturbing _whrr-churrr_ sound, and Ambulon’s optics ran error messages as they tried to widen further. That bubbling noise was probably Helex’s smelter, and he could _smell_ the rising charge as Kaon’s mods came online. Ambulon worked his jaw, trying to buy time by giving Tesarus his demanded cable-play, and there was a roar as Tarn’s engine turned over at the sight.

Pharma’s groan might have been arousing, if not for everything else currently happening. As it was, cold fear kept Ambulon sub-artic. His internal temperature reflected systems run ragged by terror, not lust. Nothing at all about this situation was sexy.

The cable tip clicked and sparked, zapping charge over his tongue. All too aware that Tesarus, Helex, and even ultra-creepy Vos had instinctively bent to get a clear view of his downcast face, the ex-‘Con drew his lips back. That showed how he had the cable tip between his front dental molds, squeezing gently. Energy jolted through his jaw with every suckle, lick, and squeeze. He turned it with his tongue, licking the tip repeatedly before forcing his tongue tip into the small cable tip to prick moisture and charge across the tiny internal structures. His lips closed so he could draw the cable in deeply, sucking it down until the tip touched the back of his throat.

Pharma made a low sound more than half-whimper as a connection prong scraped across Ambulon’s vocalizer. Charge snapped, and the jet’s hips bucked.

Meanwhile, the ward manager’s mind ran in little panicked circles. How the frag was he supposed to get his own hatch open and cables attached? Magic?

“Ambulon,” rasped from above him, in the tones of a mech who was trying and failing to keep his voice level.

Ambulon looked up. Almost straight up, because his face was all but pushed against Pharma’s knee. The cable trailing out of his mouth might have looked silly if not for the sparkling flares of energy visible between his lips. The Decepticons around them were certainly not laughing.

The surgeon leaned down, pulling against Tarn’s hold on his wings. The tank let him bend, just shifting his hands to wrap around his pet-jet’s elbows. It was only half restraint. If not for Tarn’s grip, Pharma would have overbalanced and fallen flat onto the kneeling Autobot at his feet.

Who rose up off his heels slightly, just enough to meet Pharma’s face with his own.

The kiss was soft, almost tender. Their lips brushed, fitted together, and drew just barely apart. Ambulon’s tongue rolled the interfacing cable tip forward, and Pharma’s tongue stole it from his mouth deftly. Another light liplock, and Ambulon’s teeth had the cable tip between them again. Pharma turned his head the other direction and licked at the tip of his own cable before turning his optics off and gently moulding his mouth to his ex-employee’s. The cable trailed out of the side of their conjoined lips, wriggling about as they passed it back and forth, tongues playing with it and each other.

When their mouths parted this time, Pharma exhaled tiny sparks to die on Ambulon’s lips. Someone was breathing heavily, and it wasn’t either of the Autobots. The hands on Pharma’s arms bled an EM field dense with lust, and the rest of the corridor felt crowded with the energy of five extremely turned-on Decepticons.

Pharma, like the excellent medic he was, could improvise with what he had. The jet smiled as he lit his optics again and stared into Ambulon’s slightly befuddled face. He lifted his head to gaze, dark blue and seductive, up over the confused mech’s head.

“Kaon. Your hands are necessary.”

“Oh? And what are my hands needed for?” The blind Decepticon could ‘see’ quite a lot without optical sensors, but his fans were the only ones not whirring out of control. Even Ambulon’s had finally flipped to their highest setting, but it was fear that’d gotten the Autobot’s systems hot enough for that. Kaon came up behind the kneeling mech and put a hand on Ambulon’s head like he would his Pet, and the traitor’s fans stuttered in terror.

Pharma sneered at the polite inquiry. Kaon tilted his head, ‘looking’ at the jet, and Pharma glared right back. The ridiculousness of having a glaring match with a blind mech didn’t seem to bother either of them.

“As talented as Ambulon’s mouth may be,” the sweet assurance got a hitch in the fan rate around the hall, “I don’t think he’s quite flexible enough to hook us up on his own. And since I’m currently…inconvenienced -- “ The tank pinioning his elbows to his main turbine rumbled a deep, rich laugh that did nothing for his spark’s excess charge. If Pharma had had hands at that moment, he’d have likely used them to claw out Tarn’s optics. Instead, he stiffly finished, “We require assistance interfacing.”

There wasn’t even a hint of a leer when the medic said that. It sounded like a clinical observation. _’We require assistance clipping Tab A into Slot B.’_

Kaon’s fans still kicked up. “I suppose I could…assist.”

Blue optics flicked down, meeting yellow, and Pharma’s chin jerked. The motion was tiny but imperious. Only long experience working together could have interpreted the miniscule movement.

Ambulon swallowed his smashed, mutilated pride and rose up on his knees enough to whisper his lips over the severe frown on his ex-boss’ face. The cable trailing out of the side of his mouth pulsed charge, and the soft pressure rang the silvery sound of brushing metal down the hall. He drew back just enough that close observers -- and even Tarn was leaning over his jet’s shoulder to observe by now -- could watch the tip of his tongue peep out under the cable to trace across the line where Pharma’s lips pressed together.

The corner of the jet’s mouth got a slow kiss of its own, mostly so Ambulon could put his mouth closer to the surgeon’s audio. “I don’t want to die,” Ambulon barely, barely breathed against it, pleading.

He sat back on his heels, yellow optics desperately holding Pharma’s blue until he forced himself to twist about. One hand left his lap to caress Kaon’s leg from knee to ankle, and he nudged the side of his face against the Decepticon’s knee. The ward manager turned his head until he could push the cable into the hand that’d been petting his helm.

Kaon’s hand closed on automatic, and he was mildly surprised by the way the traitor nuzzled his wrist. Humiliation buzzed against the Decepticon’s circuitry when Ambulon made himself beg. “Please, will you hook us up?”

Optics weren’t needed to enjoy _that_.

The gloating satisfaction floating greasily on top of Kaon’s EM field like oil on water made the Autobot feel dirty even before Kaon touched him. The blind mech knew exactly what he was doing. Rumor had it that Kaon was the Decepticon Justice Division’s communication expert. He probably had complete access to the ship’s internal surveillance system. He didn’t need to fumble for Ambulon’s interface hatch.

Especially not there. Or _there_. Oh, really, did he have to stick his fingers there? That wasn’t even _pretending_ to fumble anymore. What happened to the deception part of the Decepticons?

Alright, so he wasn’t in any position to judge. Uppity traitors were very quickly dead traitors. Ambulon was truly hoping that submissive traitors lived a while longer. Quite a while longer would be great. Even if he felt absolutely filthy inside and out. He could recover from psychological trauma, but not many mechs recovered from death.

“The one behind his neck will do,” Pharma instructed, but Ambulon noticed he didn’t try to urge the Decepticon along.

The surgeon was watching Kaon slide greedy, molesting hands down his ex-employee’s body, but his optics were evaluating, not enraged. This was all a gamble, and this, the most careful play of the game. Because under the slick satisfaction making Ambulon’s tanks roil with nausea, Kaon’s field reflected interest. Desire, even, and that was a _good_ thing. No matter how sickening Ambulon found it. The jet had set this up, but both Autobots knew this was Ambulon’s best chance at survival.

When firm hands on his shoulders pushed the ex-Decepticon to face Pharma again, he put both hands back to touch Kaon’s lower leg. Just his fingertips, stroking up the inside of the blind mech’s leg. It was a suggestion of further…services that could be provided upon demand.

The offer was noted and poured an extra smear of scummy gloating over Kaon’s electromagnetic signature. Ambulon shuddered and pushed as much acceptance into his own field as he could manage. He was enough of a realist to know he’d follow through on the proffered submission if it would extend his life. There was no point in pretending otherwise anymore.

The Decepticon crouched behind the traitor and dropped the cable, laughing deep in his chest at the flinch that got. This was no longer about hooking the two Autobots together. This was about what the desperate mech would give Kaon. Groping hands dipped down to stroke inner thighs quivering with revulsion and fear, and Kaon’s chuckle darkened. He drank in the terror clouding Ambulon’s energy field and ground his chest forward into the mech in an obscene gesture that wasn’t subtle enough for suggestion. That was an outright threat. His hands turned cruel, grabbing those chipped-paint thighs and yanking them apart so hard white paint flecked off to patter onto the floor.

Ambulon knelt spread and vulnerable before one and all.

The ex-Decepticon whimpered quietly but didn’t dare protest. He just sat back on his heels obediently, back struts trying to crawl out of the front of his body to get away. Many-legged fears swarmed his plating everywhere Kaon pressed against him. Anticipation bled from the Decepticon’s EM field, seeping like an infection under Ambulon’s armor.

The blind mech’s spark curled energy, hot and menacing, into his back. It wormed around his back struts, coiling about wires and tubes in squeezing snakes of invisible force that sought his chamber. It wasn’t a one-sided thing. Kaon’s spark was looking for returned energy, and the Autobot had better respond -- or else.

Ambulon whimpered again and forced his spark to feebly pulse. It was sexual stimulation as weak as butterfly wings beating against Kaon’s own spark, but the Decepticon thrust forward again because it was the poor little traitor’s helpless receptiveness that was the turn-on, here. The trembling mech was trying so hard, wasn’t he? How _adorable_. Kaon ground his chest forward again, searching out that flutter of wretched, miserable reciprocation.

The first zap of electricity caught Ambulon by surprise, and he squeaked. He looked down, optics huge, and stared as Kaon’s forefinger trailed heat and charge up an inner thigh’s armor seam. It reached the main hip joint and dipped in to toy with more sensitive cabling, and the Autobot’s vents sucked in a large gulp of air. Oh. Oh, no.

Charge _rippled_ down his legs, and then Kaon dug deeper. The electricity ran hot and building to squeeze in the shivering mech’s tanks, pulling down, trying to ground. It cycled out of that finger, through his internal systems, and back into the blind Decepticon. The charge was too hot, but conversely not enough at the same time. The current pulled and pushed, pulled and pushed, ran and built. It _streamed_ through him like he’d become a conduit, and suddenly the butterfly wings were fluttering much more urgent returns to Kaon’s predatory spark pulses.

By the time Kaon pulled his finger out of Ambulon’s hip joint, the Autobot was arched back as if molded to him. Plating along the smaller mech’s back had loosened and tightened, trying to conform to Kaon’s shape. Hands clutched Kaon’s lower leg, and Ambulon’s helm rolled on the blind mech’s shoulder. Kaon chuckled and dragged his finger up to trace over the transformation seams along the smaller mech’s midriff. That got him a small sound, vaguely pleading, and he gave the traitor another jolt to punish the plea. Ambulon would take what he was given and _thank_ him for it.

The shock was low voltage, at least for him, but still enough to rocket the Autobot’s temperature up as internal systems absorbed the excess energy.

“Aa **aaah** hnnggh…” The traitor managed to grit his teeth on the rest of the moaning cry, and that simply wouldn’t do.

Kaon’s other hand went up to push Ambulon’s head forward until he found the main access hatch by touch. Survival instinct unlocked it before Kaon had to so much as flick his forefinger against it. Clever fingers slipped in, lingering in a way that made it crystal clear that Kaon was staking a claim. _This_ corner was his, and _this_ cable belonged to him now. They were his, yes they were, and did the traitor have anything to say about that fact? No? Good ‘bot.

The cables were stroked in their housing. Kaon was going to do _whatever_ he wanted with his new property. Self-satisfaction absorbed Ambulon’s despair, fueled it, and pushed back out to ooze over the traitor’s EM field an inch at a time.

The ex-Decepticon gasped, drowning, but didn’t resist.

The cables were unspooled and wrapped, slow and taunting, around Kaon’s hand. The blind mech used them to pull Ambulon into a strained arch, forcing his back into full contact against his chest. Full, intimate contact, because the center line of Kaon’s chest had cracked just a hair.

Thick, choking curls of spark energy emerged. They stroked along Ambulon’s back. They groped over his plating, far more complete and crude than mere hands, and went even further to delve underneath and violate his electromagnetic field by taking in the energy. Spark energy was ultimately the source of a Cybertronian’s complex circuitry radiation, living robots that they were, and Kaon’s spark energy swallowed Ambulon’s EM field no matter how tightly the smaller mech tried to hold it. The fat curls greedily licked up the weaker energy and, bloated, went looking for more. Placed flat against Ambulon’s pelvic span, the zapping charge from Kaon’s hand reached to meet it halfway. Electricity coaxed the tendrils into extending and played hide-and-seek among internal systems.

Ambulon struggled slightly against the cables held in Kaon’s fist, but that set of cables was not hardware anyone should pull on. Right now, resistance was futile. He went limp, surrendering, and sobbed for clean air. Unfortunately, everything his vents took in was permeated with Kaon’s intentions. Hot air pushed out, only to rush right back in.

Kaon lifted his hand, resuming his languid tracing with just a fingertip. It stroked into the traitor’s hips and zapped him with small bolts of charge just to make Ambulon strangle on soft sounds of need. When his forefinger finished with the Autobot’s waist, Kaon made teasing circles upward. The charge rose, too. Higher voltage, higher placement, all heading up to lure Kaon’s unnaturally extended spark toward the trembling ball of Ambulon’s own.

That pulsed reluctant, hateful welcome. Ambulon couldn’t pull off the full extension of an aroused mech with a charged spark, but he took in the excess electricity Kaon’s hands kept teasing him with. He pushed it into his spark, gagging on the feel of the unnatural, unwanted energy. It forced his systems to rile up. He opened every gateway in his body, trying to let the electricity flow.

Two aroused sparks would try to meet midway, exchanging energy in a throbbing circuit that gave both participants equal measure of energy and resultant pleasure when the circuit eventually overloaded their bodies. However, this circuit didn’t complete. Ambulon was trying, he truly was, because he knew what was waiting for him if he didn’t aim to please. All the trying in the universe couldn’t make his spark stop cringing in his chamber like a frightened glitchmouse hiding in a hole, however. He forced out flickering trembles of energy that Kaon sucked up with great pleasure for the fear and shame they tasted of, but he couldn’t equal the hot licks of current coming from the Decepticon. Those stroked over his cringing spark. They mocked him in the way they skittered energy into him and curled, coaxing.

Ironically, in taking him this way, Kaon was giving his victim far more pleasure than he could take without the equal exchange. Although Kaon was very much enjoying himself. Ambulon’s weak attempts to reciprocate were nice enough for a sadist.

Kaon held the traitor’s back to his chest, and a wide smile split his face. “You simply must try this,” he remarked lightly.

The flippant comment scored Ambulon like a whip of humiliation. The bland, interested, “Oh?” from Tarn rubbed rust in the wounds.

“Really, you must. I insist.” So civil. So very polite. Ambulon gagged on shame and terror.

“Oh, but I have my own,” Tarn demurred, possessively fingering his pet-jet’s wings. Pharma had slowly straightened up as Kaon, ah, ‘sampled the goods’ so to speak, and the surgeon stood stiffly in his grasp again. Except for the scowl and the way his fans whirred, the Autobot stood stoic once more. He seemed unaffected by the continued subsonic hum purring around his spark.

Tarn cocked his head, eyeing his favorite toy speculatively. He gave Ambulon a similar look of assessment. “Unless you’d like to trade?”

Jet engines growled angrily. Laughter rocked the hall.

“I am not a cube of energon to be passed around whenever you like!” The rest of the Decepticons kept laughing as Tarn gave an exaggerated sigh. Pharma began struggling violently, fighting to turn around and confront his captor head-on.

The blind Decepticon paused as Tarn and Pharma wrestled, the tank easily controlling the much smaller Autobot but allowing the kicking and shouting. Ambulon stared, dumbfounded, but Kaon got his victim’s attention with another zapping jolt of electricity.

Ambulon gasped and rode it out, spark squeamishly accepting the influx of foreign power that ripped through him. It flooded into his chamber to seek out his quivering spark and sink in, reeking of Kaon’s sick enjoyment. It felt terribly, wonderfully, horribly good. That was the part that made him want to purge. The energy made him taste the Decepticon’s enjoyment secondhand, curling pleasure not only during but _about_ his rape into the center of his very spark.

Unhappily aware of just how much Kaon was savoring every iota of his misery, he forced out another burst of energy in return. Without natural arousal, it spurted out his chamber as blunt and unenthusiastic as a jumpstart booster. Kaon’s systems heated exponentially in response.

The Decepticon drew back a bit until the sparklight glittering through the crack in his chest stopped molesting the Autobot so deeply. The energy still mingled with the traitor’s EM field -- or rather, imposed upon it in total dominion. His hand remained firm on Ambulon’s interface cables, wrapping an extra coil around the first two fingers as if it were a leash.

And, like a pet on the other end, Ambulon followed where he was pulled. His hands went forward, clamping urgently onto Pharma’s leg, but he obediently shuffled sideways on his knees despite that handhold. The Decepticons towering on every side laughed as if amused by his awkward submission, and his hands flexed helplessly as his ex-boss was yanked out of his hold.

Pharma hissed acidic words of hate as he was pulled to one side and up off the floor. Helex held the jet at arms’-length. Both sets of them. Pharma wriggled and cursed mightily, and the walking smelting pool laughed.

“Feisty today!” Helex’s smaller set of hands pet soothingly down the jet’s sides.

“He’s always like that,” Tarn drawled, and Pharma managed to kick him in the thigh before Helex yanked him out of reach. It left a nasty dent. “Do get him under control, Helex. I would like to think you’re capable of restraining a handless Autobot medic.” The leader of the D.J.D. actually seemed annoyed, one hand briefly touching his brand new dent. His pet-jet sneered in response to the glare directed his way.

The massive smelter plonked the surgeon down hard enough that Pharma’s knee joints unlocked, nearly dumping him to the floor. Helex took the opportunity to get a better grip on the feisty, cranky, and downright bad-tempered jet with all four hands. “Behave,” he ordered gravely, looming over the medic. He didn’t seem amused by his leader’s ire.

Pharma, on the other missing hand, seemed to have accepted his immobilization and moved on to black satisfaction for having punctured Tarn’s smugness even a little. He leaned back in Helex’s multiple arms and eyed the Decepticon standing over him with scant favor. “I’m going to remove your insulation and set your heating coils to max out,” he informed the much larger mech factually. “You’ll melt from the inside out.”

Helex didn’t let go with a single hand. He’d learned his lesson about giving this Autobot an inch. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Tesarus grinned from across the hall. “What’re you going to do to me?”

Pharma scowled back. “Don’t recharge anytime soon, or you’ll find out.”

“Cool!”

A slender form slid into place behind Ambulon as his ex-boss casually threatened the most dangerous group of cold-sparked killers this side of the galaxy. Helex and Tesarus bickered amiably with their leader’s pet-jet, and meanwhile, the other three Decepticons focused on the traitor in their midst.

The ex-Decepticon pressed his clenched fists into his lap and bit his bottom lip, shoulders hunching forward in useless defense as an icicle-cold spark eeled energy into him. Vos’ creepily smooth face mask slid down the back of the traitor’s helm, physically invading his EM field and drinking in Ambulon’s shaking terror. The threatening slide of metal and sadistic hunger down his back had the Autobot’s fluttering, quivering spark sending out a paltry flare of energy. The slim scientist didn’t even have to do or say anything; Ambulon up and offered himself on a silver platter for the taking.

Take him. Please, take him. Just…he didn’t want to die.

When Tarn went to one knee in front of him, Ambulon bent his head further before him and gasped in air silently. The cold current stabbing blades of electric, perverted lust into him from behind hooked lascivious pleasure into his spark. It gleefully fed on and into his anguish. Vos’ spark felt so cold that the electromagnetic field around his armor burnt painfully against Ambulon’s no matter how receptive the Autobot tried to make himself. Cooperation didn’t make two mechs compatible, after all, and Vos had no reason to make this easy for the traitor.

Tarn had even less reason, and the ward manager cowered humbly under his glare. Righteous fury rained like boiling lead down the pitiful little mech’s front, dripping and dragging at his energy field. The leader of the D.J.D. didn’t say a word. He just knelt and waited.

Pinned between ice and fire, there was nowhere to run and no way to win. Ambulon shuddered and rose up on his knees before Kaon even had to tug on his makeshift leash. He pressed hands and chestplates to Tarn’s broad chest and _pushed_ as much as he could. It still didn’t provide much more than a brief flicker of spark energy that retreated as soon as it brushed the hot ebbing flow of Tarn’s own energy, but that tiny flare was voraciously devoured.

A quiet, stuttering cry of pained surprise came from the Autobot when the energy was pulled from him. As quickly as the gulping drain siphoned away his charge, however, Vos fed more into him. Ambulon’s cry became guttural as involuntary pleasure stabbed into him from behind.

The slender Decepticon lewdly pushed his chest into the Autobot’s back, forcing the charge in and gloating about how Ambulon had to take it. He had to take it, had to _feel_ Vos’ obscene delight at how Tarn raped the charge straight back out of him. Revulsion gushed into his field to be sipped delicately by both leader and subordinate. He was being used as a thing, a frag-toy, and the Autobot buried his face against Tarn’s chest as if to hide from how they defiled him.

One huge finger slipped under Ambulon’s chin. The thumb swept down his cheek in a caricature of a tender gesture, and the finger lifted the traitor’s face into view. “Do you want this?” Tarn asked softly, sweetly.

No. No, please. Tarn couldn’t seriously mean to make him _say_ this?

Of course he did.

“Yes,” Ambulon managed to get out, forcing another spark pulse. It was even more feeble than the previous effort, but Tarn took his time sucking it in. The draining pull tore the strength from the Autobot, who tried to turn his face away before --

The small ex-Decepticon choked on a moan. He couldn’t stop the way he ground his chest against Tarn as Vos forcefed liquid nitrogen icefire pleasure straight into his spark.

“Yes…what?” That thumb rubbed gently under Ambulon’s left optic.

Despair had Ambulon sagging back against Vos for moment. He looked up at Tarn in mute hopelessness because the hand wouldn’t let him look away, and words just wouldn’t come.

The self-righteous anger of a fanatic believer looked back at him, tempered only by purely personal pleasure. “Hmm?”

The traitor turned off his optics, then brought them back online. Bleak surrender was sipped out of his EM field by Vos, but Ambulon ignored that -- with difficulty -- in order to sit up straight. He slowly pressed his chest forward into Tarn’s again and, chin still held by that huge hand, lifted his head to nuzzle into the tank’s neck cabling. “Yes, I want this.” He didn’t, he really didn’t. Primus, he didn’t. “I want **you** ,” he got out around a thick obstruction standing on his vocalizer. “Please, I want you to i-interface with me.”

The stutter wasn’t exactly convincing. His voice couldn’t be any flatter, filled with static and self-hate. It was, however technically, consent. From the laughter, that was funniest thing the Decepticon Justice Division had ever heard. Ambulon could safely quit his day job and take up a role as a comedian. Or, apparently, a slave whore.

…not a great career change, but it beat being tortured to death.

“Mm. Yes, it is quite **nice** ,” Tarn’s voice coiled edge-of-pain sensation around Ambulon’s spark. The traitor squirmed, armor scraping against the tank’s chest. “Not precisely to my taste, but nice enough. Still.” He roughly pushed the Autobot clinging to him away, and Ambulon cringed in expectation of a blow to follow. Instead, Tarn stood up to tower over him. “I think I’d prefer this show I was promised.”

His own little pet-jet was glaring and muttering resentfully on the sidelines, held by Helex. The last word, however, rolled a wave of pure pleasure through Pharma’s spark.

Tarn tuned his voice further as he looked back and forth between the two medics. “I do like the picture they make together, don’t you?” Tesarus had been right. Primary blue and red, the purity of white, and that sleek flyer build he already favored when paired with Ambulon’s stockier build...nice. Nice enough to delay the inevitable for a while, in any case.

Pharma writhed and gasped under the power of that voice. “…fragger!”

Vos laughed against the back of Ambulon’s helm. He hissed out a fast stream of almost-binary as his spark sawed charge into the reluctant recipient.

Ambulon shivered, locking his optics on his knees as his spark took the energy and pulsed in return. There was something familiar about that language. He felt like he should recognize it from somewhere.

Pharma obviously had no trouble understanding it. The medical specialist started to sneer a comment back at Vos, but Tarn’s rumbling purr preempted him. Snide commentary became a gasp. The tank reached out and reclaimed him from Helex, and the Autobot flyer was so overwhelmed he all but fell forward into Tarn’s arms, which were ready to support him. They pulled him into their embrace. Pharma bit the first piece of black armor that came in front of his face and rode out the half-heard hum that played with his spark.

A sharp pull on his interface cables distracted Ambulon from the creepy voice whispering in his own audio. Vos’ let him be pulled partially away from his chest, but the violating touches continued even as Kaon hauled the Autobot closer.

“I wouldn’t know,” Kaon said wryly. “Do they look good together?” His voice was mildly inquiring, as if asking about the time. Not like he was asking about, say, how their torture victim and resident captive looked when forced to neck together.

“Very,” Helex agreed.

“Adorable!” Tesarus said with far more enthusiasm. “The traitor looks like he’s about to purge, and the doc’s got that look he does when he really doesn’t want to put his mouth near your -- “

“Shut. Up,” Pharma gritted out. “Or next time it will be my **teeth**.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Promise?”

The surgeon’s head slowly turned toward Helex. It just as slowly turned away.

Ambulon continued to kneel in the center of the circle of sadists. He hunched awkwardly under Vos like the universe’s most frightened armrest, but the back of his neck was angled toward Kaon. The pull on his cables ached badly. Those were his gestalt link-ups that the blind mech was abusing. He didn’t have many interfacing cables; it was mostly just that bunch in his main array. That meant there was a lot of vital equipment under the interfacing hardware that was being put under unaccustomed pressure right now.

Added to the pain was the terror of small, crunchy prey creatures when exposed to predators. He was just going to stay very still and quiet, here. Despite knowing that the D.J.D. was entirely too focused upon him -- the traitor, one of the List -- there was a part of his scared metal beast hindbrain that counseled him to remain silent. As if they’d decide suddenly to leave him be? Ha! Hahaha. Ha. No, that wasn’t going to happen.

But if he didn’t hold onto a smidgen of hope, Ambulon was going to beat himself senseless against the nearest wall in a suicidal spasm of despair. That would accomplish nothing beyond causing himself pain before the group started in on him themselves. Part of him regretted that he hadn’t ever installed a kill switch on himself. He’d gotten too complacent. He’d thought he was _safe_. Now he was the last place a traitor to the Decepticon Cause wanted to be, and he didn’t have the means to escape.

The rest of him knew that he wouldn’t be able to pull a kill switch. Not until agony drove him to it. He was too much of a survivor.

That was the part of him that watched Pharma bicker back and forth with absurdly powerful Decepticons and wanted to scream at him to _shut the frag up and help him._ The problem being that this was his _ex_ -boss. He’d never thought of Pharma as a particularly compassionate mech in the first place. After what had happened at Delphi, that opinion had downgraded to thinking of the surgeon as emotionally sterile and completely insane. Pissing off the jet was really not the way to gain his help. Pandering to his ego, perhaps, might gain some help until self-interest had Pharma backing off.

Except that, if that were true, the surgeon would have abandoned him by now. Ambulon had no idea why Pharma was helping him at all, much less going to these lengths to buy him some time. He didn’t want to question it. He just wanted Pharma to save him. Please, please save him.

Tarn was fingering the interface cabling hanging forgotten from his ex-boss’ open hatch, thumbing the tip, and the surgeon made an electronic noise more indignation than words. “Oh? Do you like that?” Tarn teased, dipping his head to murmur directly in his pet-jet’s audio, and his thumb slowly circled the jack.

Angry engine noises growled back at him, and Pharma tugged futilely on the arm caught in the tank’s other hand. Thrusters powered up, then redirected hot air to blast out the surgeon’s shoulder-vents and blow straight into the side of Tarn’s face. “I’d **like** you to let me **go** ,” Pharma huffed when the larger mech only twitched and blinked at the unexpected smack of hot air.

The hand on his cabling wound coils around one large forefinger, moving up toward open, vulnerable equipment. Tarn bent further around the small Autobot, heavy frame almost enclosing him. “I do believe you need to be, ah, what’s the phrasing?”

“Put back in the mood?” Helex suggested.

“Molested!” Even Vos barked a short laugh at Tesarus’ eager contribution.

“Mm, that sounds right. Molestation it is.” Tarn reeled the Autobot around in his arms again, all but holding him as a lover would. One large hand slid down to cup the surgeon’s aft, fingers kneading and pinching. Two of them slid into the seams of his hip joints to stroke. Pharma’s engine hiccupped as the Decepticon lowered his mask to rasp highly suggestive words directly into his audios. Wide blue optics glazed, no longer seeing as the side of his helm was pressed into Tarn’s broad chest. The crackle of an aroused spark could be felt even where Ambulon knelt, and the other Decepticons in the corridor watched raptly as Pharma began to make short, urgent, involuntary thrusts against the hand cupping his aft.

The finger tangled in his interface cables slipped into the open hatch to stroke suggestively in and out. That got a quiet, conflicted sound, and Pharma turned his face into the Decepticon’s chest as if to hide the way pleasure made his lips part slightly. By the time Tarn finished his low monologue, the surgeon was weak-kneed and bucking into the hand now leisurely groping his entire pelvic span, forcing fingers deep into the joints and running casually between his legs.

“Better?” the tank asked innocently.

“Hate…you.” Pharma strangled on his own words as thick fingers crooked, catching cables normally left untouched.

Ambulon swallowed hard and curled in on himself, turning and cringing in one unmistakeably servile motion. As low as he’d been brought, he ducked lower still to nudge the side of his face into Vos’ abdomen. The Decepticon cold plating nearly numbed the ward manager’s helm crest, although it was the sting of electromagnetic energy that caused the feeling, not actual temperature. Ambulon pushed into it for a second, trying to transmit submission as hard as he could through his own circuitry, before turning his head just enough to peer upward at the scientist.

“Please?” he asked, small and hoarse. “L-let me..?” His optics flicked momentarily to Tarn’s pet-jet.

Body language from the slender Decepticon suggested surprise, but his mask showed nothing. Usually, Ambulon had little trouble reading expressions off of mechs with facial masks. It was just something people picked up from dealing with so many mechs who had them. It usually wasn’t a difficult task. This mech, however, left Ambulon trying to guess, knowing he was dead metal if he was wrong. Even Vos’ optics showed little personality.

The medic was acting on guesswork. He pushed his shivering spark to its limit, twisting just a bit more on his knees to press his chest closer to the scientist. He used the position to flare what charge he could upward, toward Vos’ spark. His thigh struts and knee joints protested the odd weight distribution, but he rose up ever-so-slowly on his knees. It pressed him further into the Decepticon, and as he pushed upward, that ran his cheek and chest up the scientist’s body in an incredibly intimate caress.

He paused, turning his face further into the mech’s slimy EM field as it gushed sadistic pleasure over him. Ambulon forced himself to take a deep in-vent, steadying himself, before he turned his head and ran his lips over the nearly invisible lines where Vos’ chestplates would split to expose the spark underneath. The slick, sucking pull of smug gratification grew greater, feeding off the dread he couldn’t hide trembling under his plating, betrayed by his own energy field.

Something fragile shriveled under his spark, too easily broken and aware of that fact. His hands slid up Vos’ sides, offering and pleading in one open-handed gesture as he nuzzled his head into the space between the Decepticon’s shoulder and neck. He rested the side of his helm there, almost burrowing under the more slender but still larger mech’s chin. His hands worked their way from Vos’ sides, making aimless circles across the Decepticon’s chest until the backs tucked close against his own chest.

Ambulon brushed his nose against sensitive neck cabling, slowly sliding his hands up between them until fingertips resting against them tentatively. He rubbed the side of his face into Vos’ throat in open supplication. His head turned to risk a peek up, partially at Vos but also beyond him at Kaon.

“Please. I’ll make it good,” he promised sincerely.

That promise scraped dignity off internal surfaces using a chisel and hammer. The self-hate soaking his circuitry provoked another laugh from the scientist. Vos allowed him to cling and plead, letting that humiliation soak in fully.

The pull on his interface cables became painful, and Ambulon muted a whine when Kaon yanked him back enough to get in his face. “I’m not sure you understand, scum,” the blind mech said, and contempt mixed with amusement in his voice. “It’s not that one,” he waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the panting surgeon, “you’ll be **servicing**.” The level of crudity in that one word had the traitor flinching. Kaon let it roll around in his mouth, savoring every nuance, and repeated it just for another delicious ripple of fear-nausea through that delightfully frightened electromagnetic field. “Servicing.”

Metal clashed and grated, self-sharpening blades whirling in Tesarus’ chest. Under the bright optical ‘X’, the walking grinder’s smile was wide and so happy. Even his torso-tunnel sounded happy as he demanded, “Service with a smile!”

The cheery enthusiasm was undercut by a dark, sadistic bloodlust that hinted at how the Decepticon usually got his jollies. The combination was profoundly disturbing. Ambulon shuddered and huddled down on his knees, looking from him to Kaon with scared yellow optics.

It was a fight, but Ambulon pasted a smile on his face one locked-down facial plating at a time. It looked exactly like the rigor mortis grimace of a dead mech. He turned it up toward Kaon and nodded frantic agreement. “I-I understand.”

Service with a smile. Passionate interfacing, or at least complete compliance with whatever the D.J.D. wanted to do to -- with -- him. It was…humiliating. Offering himself up for rape was still the better option, however. Pain and degradation was better than total agony and whatever he’d do under its influence.

Ambulon kept his smile and did his best to push interest into his EM field. Vos’ field reflected a surge of lust for the effort, which was progress. Lust came in a multitude of flavors, however. He had to keep these Decepticons’ lust very carnal. Under these particular circumstances, Pharma was Ambulon’s sex god. He’d never wanted to frag someone more in his _life._

“Please,” the ward manager begged, trying to be pretty, trying to be pleasing. “Please, Kaon. Give me a chance?” His hands rose, fingers tentative. Their metal was coated with panicked need. Kaon seemed impassive to their hesitant touch, but the Autobot stroked supplication down his shin. “H-how do you like it?”

Now that was a mouthful of mortifyingly bitter words to gag on.

There was a loud _clang_ , and a powerful tank engine sputtered in startled reflex. Pharma successfully squirmed free while Tarn was still doubled over -- some impact points got the same reaction no matter the frametype -- and stalked toward his ex-employee. “Do you **mind**?” he snapped over his shoulder. Sneer #2 was firmly in place: _’Lackey, keep up!’_

Helex barked a laugh. Then he was suddenly staring very hard at the ceiling when Tarn’s head whipped around toward him. Tesarus had both sets of hands over his mouth. The tank’s head turned, glacially slow, to glower at him as well. Tesarus and Helex found that ceiling, wow, just fascinating. So much ceiling to stare at! They could do this all day!

Pharma ignored them both in favor of the two Decepticons getting handsy with his former ward manager. “I have a show to get in the air. You,” Kaon cocked an optic ridge, “get your hands over here and hook me up. We can make a chain. My jack into him, his into you.”

“Mine,” Tarn rumbled, recovered and twice as dangerous as he straightened, “into you.”

That gave the surgeon pause. “Ah. Yes. I suppose, if you must.”

“Oh, I must.” Danger stepped across the hallway. “I must.”

White wings smoothed down just slightly, but Ambulon envied Pharma his composure. Words could not describe how much he envied it. Tarn wasn’t even looking at him, much less towering over him with red optics angrily narrowed, and Ambulon was already cringing in terror. Pharma just turned to give the tank a tired sneer (#8: _‘Too old to put up with this slag’_ ) before looking back to Kaon.

The surgeon’s tone was waspish. “Are we doing this sometime today, or should I just -- “

“Pharma!” Ambulon hissed, appalled and afraid. “You can’t just **leave** me here!”

The surgeon glared silently until those words echoed back to haunt the other medic. Couldn’t he? He had already. Ratchet had told Ambulon all about the Red Rust, and how Pharma had created it with the intention of killing everyone at Delphi. The once-Autobot (was he still an Autobot?) had set out to infect the whole facility and the nucleon mine, bringing down the entire outpost. Everyone should have died, including Ambulon.

Right?

He’d been so indignant and outraged over Pharma’s betrayal that Ambulon hadn’t really thought the personal angles through. Now he stared up at the surgeon’s strangely sullen, non-sneer expression and wondered.

Ambulon had been Pharma’s employee, his clinic’s ward manager. They had worked together for centuries. Ambulon had been doing his utmost to be an upstanding employee and a better medic, trying to culture a professional relationship, even a friendship, that would benefit his career. It wasn’t that he’d been _using_ Pharma for his connections, but…the head of the Delphi Emergency Medical Clinic had been part of an Autobot medical network Ambulon had never been granted access to. The ex-Decepticon had never gone to a medical academy, never had a formal education. He’d picked up his skills from field medicine pre-programmed into him courtesy of the Decepticons, then defected and gone on to an apprenticeship and residency under a series of Autobot medics. Those had all been done at the main hospitals well behind the frontlines. He’d never been under one medic long enough to forge the strong connection necessary to shepherd his career.

Scoring the Delphi job had been a combination of pulling one of the few strings he had and the fact that nobody else wanted a job almost inside enemy territory. He didn’t know for certainly, but he’d always kind of assumed that Pharma had been somewhat impressed by an ex-Decepticon having the bearing diameter to apply for a job next door to the D.J.D. He’d tried to keep impressing the prickly surgeon by sticking to proper rules and procedures. It was well-known that following orders was how one got into Pharma’s favor.

The surgeon had a stunning reputation in the operating theatre, but not such a stellar one outside it. He had a reputation for relationships like an accountant’s ledgers: give and take. No more was given than was ever scrupulously noted down as taken, and he expected the same in return. It sounded cold, perhaps selfish, but that didn’t take into account that Pharma held himself to the same standards. His relationship accounting habit also meant that he’s wasn’t prone to giving less than was owed.

Ambulon didn’t know why the deal with the Decepticon Justice Division had been struck in the first place, but apparently Pharma insisted on protecting Ambulon as part of it. Even in the face of the D.J.D. destroying Delphi, he’d held himself responsible for his employee.

The Red Rust plague had been designed around the idea of infection via transformation. Neither of his employees transformed. First Aid and Ambulon might have survived. It’d been planned so that they _would_ survive. Pharma had intended his staff to be moved to safety after Delphi shut down from plague.

All that effort, and then he’d panicked when Ratchet arrived. His careful scheme had been upset, and he’d ended up threatening Ambulon’s life. He’d accused him of treason even though he knew full well the truth.

Ambulon looked up at his ex-boss and tallied invisible relationship markers.

Pharma _owed_ him.

“You can’t leave me here!” he repeated, quiet and afraid but sure of his conclusion nonetheless.

Angry, conflicted optics met Ambulon’s. For all the arrogance and mouthing off, the surgeon was not nearly as confident as he acted. Insulted to the point of almost not caring, true, but Pharma was walking a fine line and knew it. He was here in this hallway playing the part of amusing, feisty pet-jet for Tarn, because otherwise --

\-- otherwise --

Pharma looked away first.

Because otherwise, Ambulon stood no chance whatsoever. Despite his reputation being shot, his hands having been chopped off, and his name branded as an Autobot criminal, Pharma was a stubborn glitch. That invisible ledger was still keeping score. To do less would be admitting defeat. He _would not_ admit that he’d been wrong.

Red wingtips were seized in hard hands, and the surgeon winced. “Those are not **toys** ,” he barked irately at Tarn, but there was a flare of something almost like gratitude through his EM field for the interruption.

The pressure increased, almost sending Pharma to his knees as the metal slowly crumpled between Tarn’s fingers. “They are,” the Decepticon corrected him. That notorious voice slid through the Autobot’s spark chamber and kneaded velvety thumbs of charge into an already aroused corona. “I think you forget your place, my dear Pharma.” Special emphasis on his name had Pharma’s joints melting to rubber. “ **You** are a toy. **My** toy. I did not pick your parts out of a canyon for the mere fun of using a magnet to collect your pieces.” The shivering surgeon was reeled in again by his wings, optics wide and a blank blue that clearly saw nothing as the leader of the D.J.D. bent to croon maliciously in his audio. “You are here to serve. To serve **me**. I am **permitting** you to work off your debt to me, but that is not permission written in indelible glyphs. Should you continue to flaunt your attitude, I will not hesitate to, ah, change our deal.”

That purple insignia-mask rose to regard the traitor kneeling almost in Vos’ arms. Ambulon bent his head meekly, getting the point like a stab to the vitals. He already knew he was balancing on a razor’s edge, thank you very much. Telling him he could be tortured on a whim wasn’t news. It was just, well, terrifying.

Tarn never looked away from the traitor, and his gaze was an almost physical pressure as he spoke. “Do you remember, Pharma? Our deals have a history of not working out, Pharma. I had to change so much, Pharma. You failed me so often, Pharma.”

Every repetition of his name had Tarn’s toy Autobot moaning softly, optics cutting dark as they went offline before the assault of pleasure. The surgeon arched away from Tarn’s body, against the Decepticon’s arms, helplessly trying to escape something his spark cried out to complete. The yellow glass of his cockpit glass glittered with gathered charge, and Tarn stroked it. He flaunted his ownership by smoothing his hand down Pharma’s body, making the surgeon feel every bit of the violation even as his voice forced the spark whirling in the Autobot’s chest to enjoy what he did to the mech.

“Does your once-employee know about your deals, Pharma? Did you ever hint to him what you bargained for, Pharma? Did he think that we’d forgotten him, Pharma?” The throbbing rumble of a heavy-duty engine made the floor vibrate and Pharma arch. His face locked in a pained expression, teeth gritting on loud sounds of unwilling pleasure as Tarn’s voice soaked into his spark.

The tank himself glared directly at Ambulon. “We never forget the List, Pharma.” He lowered his head and his voice without releasing the traitor from his glare. “Has he asked you yet, Pharma? Does he know how much you paid for his life, Pharma?” Because forcing Ambulon to witness his dignified, brilliant boss be reduced to incoherent gasps wasn’t enough for Tarn. Not only did he want to scare the bolts off the traitor, but he wanted to throw guilt in there.

The ex-Decepticon really didn’t want to think about what Pharma was paying for him _now_ in terms of indignity and pain, much less wonder how many of the deaths at Delphi had come about because of him. He didn’t want to think about how Tarn’s hands were so familiar with his former employer’s body, or how Pharma ground back against the leader of the D.J.D. with resignation practically bleeding through the hate and involuntary desire.

“Please,” the jet mewled, aft dancing a slow rhythm in Tarn’s lap. “Tarn…please…let me…” His intakes closed, muting the cry that tried to slip out as the larger mech kept talking, voice gliding over his pleas.

“What will you give me this time, Pharma? What price is too much, Pharma? Maybe we’ll find out what your limit is this time, Pharma. An interesting experiment, wouldn’t you agree, **Pha~arma**?”

Tarn’s hand crept around to prod, hinting, at the gold cockpit. Pharma’s optics flickered rapidly, lips shaping stammered words as his name rolled through his whirling spark. It wasn’t _quite_ enough, of course. No, that would be too easy, and Tarn was out to prove a point. A grating sound of _need_ came from the surgeon’s open mouth. The massive hand stroked again, half suggestion and half an order.

“Not -- not here,” Pharma choked out. His wrists scraped frantically at his captor’s fingers, but even if he’d had hands, he wouldn’t have been strong enough to pry the Decepticon away. “ **Augh**. T-Tarn, not here. Not that.”

“That,” the leader of the D.J.D. purred deeper than the growl of tank engines and Tesarus’ grinder, “is not your decision.” The big hand cupped over yellow cockpit glass, stroking charge to the surface of the glass. Static electricity zapped beneath the translucent glass: miniature lightning bolts of visible charge zapping between internal storage units and the hand teasing the yellow canopy. “Pharma,” sang like a blade cutting away inhibitions, and the cockpit latches audibly popped, “you know better than to try to resist me.”

The surgeon writhed, fighting his own body. He wrapped his arm around himself, keeping his chest plates from opening. “That’s h-how you li-ike -- like it,” he got out, stuttering through gasps of exertion. His knees kept giving out. Red feet scrambled at the floor just to stay upright, and Pharma was relying more on the hands molesting him than his unsteady legs. This was not a battle he could win. He’d lost it too many times not to know that, but like the Pit would he concede easily. “I-if you want **engh!** Wanted! Me to r-roll over and pl-play dead, you -- you’d ch-chain me d-down instead of ch- **ah!** sing me aa **uhngh** nnngghhh…ar-round the sh-ship.”

He slumped, panting and whimpering as he reached his breaking point. His arms slowly dropped to his sides. “Fragging -- fine!”

Even as his pet-jet’s sparklight glittered into sight, however, Tarn stiffened under the surgeon’s sniping words. Pharma had been defeated yet again by the pulsating roll of his voice, but the Autobot didn’t know how to give up gracefully. The tank straightened and cast an evil glare around the whole group.

Tesarus found great interest in examining the ceiling yet again. The other D.J.D. members returned to watching their captive avidly, because their leader was suddenly skewering them with sharp looks. Those looks told them they’d heard _nothing_ , absolutely _nothing_. The fact that their leader regularly played games of ‘Catch the Jet’ and might, just maybe, encourage the attitude that allowed Pharma to backchat and get in their faces? That fact had not just become a topic of conversation. It absolutely had not, nope, not at all. No sir, yes sir, shutting up now, sir.

Oh, look at Ambulon. Yes, why didn’t they all just look at Ambulon.

Tesarus’ grinder revved, the clash of blades almost drowning out the small snicker that escaped him. The ceiling was so amusing.

Pharma shuddered, forearms still shielding his cracked chest. “Voyeuristic lowbrow gutterscum,” he muttered, but the insults lost their sting when his wrists were trying to fend off large purple fingers.

Tarn gave one more glare for good measure around the hall before bending with immense dignity to murmur in a way that had those defensive arms dropping limply to the surgeon’s sides. The litany of vile epithets slurred into a wordless moan.

Kaon pulled harshly, and Ambulon winced as he followed the cruel pull. The cringing Autobot’s shoulders hunched awkwardly. The interface cords behind his neck tugged on important components, lancing pain down his arms and back. Kaon held the improvised leash just tight enough to prevent him from being able to reach the floor with his hands. He had to shuffle quickly on his knees after Kaon, and Helex and Vos both laughed at the traitor’s scurrying.

Ambulon kept his cardboard cut-out smile pasted on and couldn’t help but feel relieved. Even knowing what he was crawling toward, he felt like he could finally draw in a regular ventilation cycle when Vos’ vise-like EM field peeled off him. That didn’t make what he was going toward any better, but it gave him room to think.

Purple fingers flirted with sparklight, and Pharma was making small sounds of unadulterated pleasure behind the lip he chewed on. “I could make you overload like this,” Tarn murmured as Ambulon was led close enough to hear. “You do remember how that feels, don’t you? How do my fingers feel when they touch your very being, Pharma?” The crooned question made the exposed spark dance, and the Decepticon’s fingers spun glittering plasma around them like delicate threads. The tiny filaments of light wound around and around, bright and full of life, but they could be so easily broken with a single flex of that powerful hand.

Pharma _keened_ as that hand opened slightly. It was a sound of agony and pleasure too intense to be enjoyed. Tarn stretched him, stretched his spark, and the burn was delicious. Terrible, but delicious. His mouth dropped open, lip dented by his teeth and forgotten. “Tarn -- Tarn, please!” He writhed in an attempt to push himself further back into the blasted Decepticon now done playing with the corona. Tarn had moved on to outright fondling his spark.

Tarn’s hand was too large to properly fit in the chamber itself, but Pharma’s spark was so _accommodating._ It betrayed what its owner never would. Pharma’s frame kicked and protested, but his spark, oh yes. His spark remembered, and it didn’t have the restraint of Pharma’s stubborn mind. The tank smirked behind his mask as his pet-jet’s spark fluttered forward in its chamber, properly teased into leaving its safe haven. It pulsed against his palm in hot, whirling surges, just begging for more of that searing pleasure he had so much experience lavishing upon it.

Who was he to deny such a well-trained little thing? Tarn obliged, gently curling his fingers inward to squeeze into the comparatively tiny ball of plasma and life energy. It responded by ecstatically rubbing against his fingertips like an affectionate technimal. His own personal pet, swirling and jolting charge with every stroke he gave it. He carefully cupped it in his palm and slowly worked his thumb deeper and harder, until the surgeon’s fans were whistling as they desperately dumped heat from his core systems.

“Oh, I think you like that,” Tarn whispered, letting his engine purr approval. The vibrations poured down his arm to thrum right into that eager, wanton bit of energy twining enthusiastically around his thumb, almost enveloping it in the melting-hot center. “Do you want this, Pharma? Do you want me to finish you off right here? Right now, displayed like the spoiled pleasurebot you are deep in your core.” He lowered his head and massaged just a touch deeper, making that spark spit out glittering loops of ecstasy. “I do spoil you so, don’t I. I give you what you want. You like this. You like it when we watch you. You enjoy being put on display like this. Just look at how your spark comes out to be shown off.”

Pharma went limp, held up from collapsing in senseless pleasure by the Decepticon supporting him. He clearly neither knew or cared who or what had brought him to this point, only that he was here now and dear _Primus_ , please let him tip over! “Please! **Ah** nnngh ah ah-haaa-aa oh, oh, please. Please, you have to -- h-have to -- please, Tarn!” His wings flicked, out of his control and showing every bite taken as pleasure ate him alive. His optics were a pale blue edging toward white, and the surgeon’s head fell back as moaning cries started somewhere approximately around his cockpit. They emerged from his mouth as near-screams. “Tarn! Pl-please! Just -- just let me -- “ His back struts seized up, creaking as he arched violently, optics flaring. “ **Please!** ”

The other Decepticons stood around watching. Tarn angled Pharma so they could all see, and the surgeon did absolutely nothing to stop him. Not that he could, but it was questionable he even realized they were still there. He just gasped a series of shrill, static-laden cries that sounded like pleas.

“Nice toy you’ve got there,” Helex said blandly.

“He is a pretty thing, isn’t he?” Tarn agreed, still playing with the spark squirming and rolling about in his palm. “Would you like to share him with me?”

That was an offer loaded with innuendo, and the mechs in the hallway radiated crackling charge. They were interested in every way in this little show. Helex inclined his head, appreciative, and let his optics linger on the way Tarn’s plaything was actively trying to push into the tank, now. Such a nice frag-toy, charged up and ready to go.

“You know, I think I would,” the walking smelter said as smiles heavy on the sadism crossed every face in the corridor. Ambulon knelt where he’d been pulled, practically at Pharma’s feet, and Helex’s optics rested on the traitor in their midst like actual weights. “Maybe next time. I want to see this show, yeah?”

“Tarn,” the surgeon whined thinly. “Please, Tarn, I’ll be good, I’ll make it so good for you, just -- “ He squirmed, arms scraping down Tarn’s sides as he blindly reached back. “I’ll -- I’ll do whatever you want! Just please, please…” His spark gave a brilliant pulse, stroked nearly to the peak. The Decepticon caressing him opened his hand, however, and Pharma groaned at the wicked torture as his spark was tipped off Tarn’s palm to flux its streamers in desperate desire. “No _ooh_ , no, **no** , I said I’d do it! Whatev -- “ his intakes hitched as a streamer managed to coil around one purple finger, “ -- ever you want!”

Tarn slowly withdrew his hand, but the single strand of Pharma's spark stubbornly stayed wrapped around his finger. The main ball of plasma gave a visual shriek that glittered painfully bright as the tank rubbed his thumb across the insistent thread.

“ **Tarn!** ” tore out of the jet in a sobbed gust of air.

"I want to see you interface with this toy we've brought you," Tarn said into an audio. “Do you understand, Pharma?”

Pharma couldn't manage coherent words in response, as his spark had his body seizing up in long, powerful waves of plate-rattling shudders. The familiar purple hand he both loved and hated had returned, shedding its persistent tag along but relenting enough to use all five fingers to plump the burning spark. The surgeon twitched and shuddered, whimpering faintly. Dainty pinches pulled his spark this way and that, spreading the corona until the ball of plasma had fluffed to half again its previous size.

Swirls of super-charged energy chased after Tarn’s hand as he withdrew it this time. The tank pinched and rubbed the buzzing, hot spark-threads between his fingertips, amused. "The way you keep making a spectacle of yourself,” he rumbled as Pharma almost squealed his name, “you're not doing much to hide how much you get off on the attention. I should lay you down on the floor right here, open you from throat to cockpit, and make you pray for release."

There was a stall-out through everyone watching. Fans cut out completely for an audible five seconds of silence. Even Ambulon blinked, optics widening.

Happy grinder noises stopped, then spun up to quicker than before. “I vote for that,” Tesarus put in, raising his hand as if actually voting.

The leader of the D.J.D. looked his followers and chuckled. Pharma found his voice somewhere high and squeaky, and he put it to use in a chanting mantra of, “Oh Primus oh Primus oh yes, yes-yes, please Tarn please!” One blue optic was dim; the other was over-bright. The surgeon was obviously not seeing much beyond flashing error messages and an overload long in coming.

So of course Tarn stopped teasing his spark toward it. “Ambulon,” rolled off Tarn’s tongue, and the ex-Decepticon jolted on his knees as his spark jumped in his chest. Ambulon gulped and drew in on himself, looking up in fright at the tank looking down at him. After a moment, Tarn snorted in contempt and let go of his toy. “Do hold him for me.”

“Ah.” Pharma abruptly poured to the floor, strutless and whimpering, and Ambulon scrambled to support his ex-boss. “Ah, yes! O…kay. Yes.” Because of his altmode, the ward manager’s structure was rather dense. That didn’t make it any easier to do more than guide the full-sized flight frame down in a controlled collapse. Their positioning was simply too awkward. Pharma ended up facing away from him, more or less in his lap. “L-like this?” Ambulon asked hesitantly.

The Decepticons took a moment to appreciate the sight. The traitor’s hands didn’t seem to know what was safe to hold onto. Pharma was a hot, steaming mess of a mech unable to sit still as he shivered and blinked in stymied overload. His chest was splayed wide open, everything on display and just begging for a final touch to let his energy-swollen spark discharge. Ambulon tentatively tried to nudge the open plating shut, but he kept glancing nervously around at the mechs towering above him. He was obviously afraid of doing the wrong thing, but he just as obviously didn’t know what the right thing was. The right thing being what his future torturers wanted him to do. A wrong move could mean his future might come all the sooner.

The combination of his fear and their captive surgeon’s needy moans had the D.J.D.’s engines running. Those engines began to _race_ when Tarn gracefully sank to one knee before the two Autobots. Their boss the killer Decepticon and two helpless Autobot medics? That was hot.

Ambulon froze, throat tubing working convulsively as he stared at the tank. The ward manager looked like a glitchmouse caught in a trap.

A single purple finger unhurriedly reached forward, passing over Pharma’s wing to slip under the traitor’s chin. The smaller mech made a funny sound, but Tarn merely tipped Ambulon’s face up to look him in the optics. “My dear Pharma here already knows, but you.” The finger tapped. “You likely have no idea the modifications done to further my, hmm, vocal talents. I’m sure you’ll find this **interesting**.” Ambulon cringed back but didn’t dare take his chin off the finger it balanced on as that horrid purple mask leaned in close. Tarn’s voice sent a pang of agony directly into his spark, causing another cringe and sharp, coughed sound of pain. “I expect you to observe, Ambulon.”

Look away at his peril, basically. Ambulon gave a terrified sort of head-jerk that could pass as a nod. Tarn studied him a moment more just to make him tremble.

Then the Decepticon lowered his head and -- oh dear Primus.

He couldn’t look away. The ward manager jammed that in the forefront of his thoughts and glued his optics to the thing. The thing coming out of Tarn’s mouth. It was a tongue. Wasn’t it? It was some sort of tongue. A wafer-thin sheet of clear silicon emerged from the mouth-slit of Tarn’s mask, studded with chemical receptors and the complex wiring of a sensor network, and it just kept going. It came out and out in an impossibly long strip that Ambulon dazedly tried to picture folded up inside the Decepticon’s mouth. How did he talk with that? It had to be connected to the odd vocalizer that allowed Tarn to manipulate mechs’ sparks, but it was just so incredibly long!

It rippled down toward Pharma’s spark in a long, supple ribbon that coiled in vulgar ways. It met the first rings of the jet’s spark corona, and Pharma outright _screamed_. It wove through the plasma, the end tickling and licking as it squeezed the flares. The sensor network wiring lit up, zapping charge at random as it absorbed and transmitted electricity. Every quick lap had the surgeon’s spark exploding in starburst gluts of pleasure that weren’t quite enough. The tongue darted in and licked at the core, retreating to shock at the hissing outer edges when Pharma spasmed on the very edge.

If the Autobot surgeon had possessed hands, they’d have been clawing at Tarn’s head. Instead, Pharma could only wrap his arms as far around the Decepticon’s head as they’d go, trying to force Tarn’s face into his chest so he could ride that tongue to completion. Tarn put one large purple hand over the jet’s open cockpit and kept him at a distance easily. Ambulon’s face reflected terrified, fascinated revulsion as he stared over Pharma’s wing at the light, teasing tickles that had the flyer writhing and making short, aborted motions that went nowhere. Snake-like, that tongue flickered quickly out to slide its ridiculously long length around the spark itself in order to flutter at the chamber edges.

“ ** _Please!_** ” Pharma entire body shuddered and bucked, trying to shove his chest upward.

The obscene length of tongue sucked back in, and the dark head lifted. Satisfied crimson optics met horrified yellow as Ambulon gaped at the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division. Behind his mask, Tarn was smiling. “Mmm. No.”

Ambulon jumped, almost losing his grip on Pharma as the surgeon writhed on his lap in an attempt to chase after Tarn and his tongue. “Pharma,” he hissed in the jet’s audio. “Pharma, don’t!” His hands sought new holds, less supporting the jet than clamping down as he would on a recalcitrant patient. The ward manager wrestled the larger Autobot into a better position, shushing the pleasure-addled mech the whole while. He’d done the same for countless patients suffering side-effects from pain-nullifiers or -- more commonly -- stimulants. Dosing miners at the Delphi clinic had always been an adventure in navigating the mine’s unofficial self-medication regime.

Pharma had sworn up and down after every hyperactive accident victim that he was going to rifle through the miners’ belongings for illegal stim-sticks. He’d never gotten around to it. Thus, Ambulon and First Aid were professional wranglers of the totally wired.

That clinical scenario was belied by the way spark energy crackled over his knuckles. This was arousal, not drugging, although the unconscious craving of the body searching for its next fix were similar. Ambulon ducked his head and went for a steadying in-vent as the energy zipped over his plating and called to his own spark. His own spark, which had been used for pleasure and therefore was still reluctantly aroused. It whirled in his chest despite how he tried to will it not to respond.

The pull wasn’t entirely unexpected. Ambulon flinched anyway and looked up. His optics held a wariness Pharma had been pushed well past.

“I think you owe us a show, traitor.” Kaon smiled down at him, and the expression looked disarmingly happy. Kaon was the kind of mech who’d electrocute a traitor to death and transform to smile while reporting success. Sadistic joy in eradicating the List, one traitor at a time? Yeah, Kaon had that to spare.

The whole D.J.D. did, to be honest. The Decepticon Justice Division overflowed with happy people. The _Peaceful Tyranny_ was practically a party ship. Holla back, Tesarus.

Ambulon could have done without seeing both killers grinning down at him. He swallowed through fear-tight intakes and lowered his gaze so he wouldn’t have to see. “Um. Yes. Of…of course.” How the frag did one move a rape along? It felt like they’d been tormenting him for a week straight, but realistically it hadn’t been more than an hour since Tesarus had first opened the door to the cell. If this took any longer, stress was going to fry one of the ward manager’s circuit breaker banks before Kaon even got a chance to.

Ambulon’s processors had reached a point of data saturation. Emotional components had been firing constantly, overactive enough to overheat and clog various processor queues as the increased energy flow funneled through them. There were so many threat assessments coming up as high priority that his whole head felt bogged down. He felt strangely disconnected: terrified but feeling things on a separate level like his mind had detached from the visceral fear making his internal systems quiver.

What he felt in that moment of disconnect was annoyance. True, condescending annoyance. Pharma-level, sneer #2 annoyance: _’Lackey! Don’t make me lecture you!’_

He _knew_ his life was in danger. He _knew_ that terrified him, but part of him was positively peevish at these mechs’ inefficiency. They kept saying they wanted Ambulon and Pharma to put on a show, but then they kept _interrupting_. It felt as if Ambulon as a person was cringing on the floor in his mind, but the professional ward manager had his hands on his hips as he blew out an exasperated breath, saying, _’Will you just get **on** with it?!’_

There was probably a psychology terms for that. ‘Stupid’ seemed about right. Maybe ‘suicidal,’ because Ambulon actually had to bite the inside of his bottom lip to stop himself from blurting it out.

He cast about for a way to get…well, get this show on the road. What should he do? What _could_ he do? Pharma panted and whimpered in his arms. Tarn had risen to his feet to tower over both Autobots, but not without first patting the surgeon’s helm. That left them in the center of a rough circle of really horrible Decepticons just waiting for Ambulon to provide amusement. If the show didn’t get going, they’d make their own entertainment.

Wow, hello motivation! That punched through the paralyzing list of Bad Things freezing his processors up, and Ambulon beheld a particularly nasty scenario likely to occur if he didn’t get his aft moving. His muddle of emotions became stark horror. He had no idea what they wanted to see, but he had to do something!

“U-uh, may I use my hands?” he asked, keeping his head lowered and voice humble. He didn’t dare assume that stipulation had been lifted.

“I’d like to see you hook in without them!” someone said from behind him. The undertone of bubbling metal identified the mech better than any vocal recognition file.

Ambulon froze in a wince as Kaon’s slick EM field pressed down on him. The electrical-modded mech bent to stick his fingers in the open interfacing hatch at the back of his neck. That felt absolutely terrible, and the ex-Decepticon twitched under a wave of queasiness as fingers probed his hookups. Kaon’s glee swamped him.

“No, I think Pharma was right. They do need a hand,” the blind mech said sweetly. “I am **happy** to assist, of course.”

Fingertips raked up the thick cable already unspooled from the hatch, and Ambulon’s shoulders went back in reflex. That hadn’t hurt so much as it’d shot the _sensation_ of Kaon straight into his interface hardware. Electromagnetic energy transmitted exceptionally well, and Ambulon squirmed as the feeling skittered down his backstruts. It push-pulled sickly, tempting current at his spark, and he was terrible aware that he was going to become closely acquainted with that tainted energy very soon, now.

Kaon snapped his fingers beside the ward manager’s head, smirking as the traitor startled, frightened. “Pass me Pharma’s cording,” he said into Ambulon’s audio, intentionally keeping his voice low and intimate.

That lusciously overcharged EM field squirming away from his fingers jittered again as the mech jumped to obey. Ambulon didn’t dare reject the lewd push of Kaon’s current, and the blind Decepticon savored how the traitor fought not to flinch away. He didn’t need functioning optics to tell that what was pressed into his open hand was Pharma’s interface cables; they practically shocked his hand with the excess energy Tarn had expertly coaxed the surgeon’s systems into producing. Kaon smiled widely and combed his fingers down Ambulon’s cording again before bringing his other hand up in order to lick at the tips of Pharma’s cables.

Tarn’s pet-jet screamed weakly, and Kaon could clearly hear how the larger Autobot struggled against Ambulon’s hold. The _Peaceful Tyranny_ ’s surveillance system gave him a nice picture of the scene, and his electric coils spat charge as he smiled slowly. “I think he liked that. What do you think?”

The whole group laughed cruelly as Ambulon winced from the question asked far, far too close to his audio. “I, uh. Yes.”

“Yes…what?”

The ex-Decepticon concentrated on wrestling Pharma back under control. “Yes, I think he liked that,” he said as levelly as possible when answering crude questions about his ex-employer. Because these mechs could make any situation more awkward yet, it seemed.

Awkward -- and painful. Kaon played with the traitor’s hook-ups, mashing the delicate interiors with the barest tips of his fingers and bending the metal a little as he forced the individual slots open enough to get at the conductive filaments inside. Ambulon jerked and suddenly clutched Pharma in a much less professional manner. Tersarus and Vos drifted idly behind Kaon to peer over his shoulder into the open interface equipment he was manipulating. They exchanged murmured commentary, sounding approving, as their blind fellow D.J.D. member idly sent small zaps of electricity directly into the hook-ups.

Raw current dropped Ambulon’s jaw, spat static from his vocalizer, and flared his optics white. “Nngh!”

“Ohhh? Do **you** like that, traitor?” The breathy question got nothing but another strained grunt in response, and Kaon gave the kneeling mech another jolt to hasten his thoughts along. “Well?”

That equipment wasn’t supposed to handle unfiltered energy uncushioned by cable transference. His interface equipment was heavy-duty compared to a non-gestalt mech, meant to hook into more than one individual mechs at one time and conduct proportionately more energy and data. That was the only reason Ambulon’s brain module didn’t fry in his cranial cavity with the first zap.

This was abuse, plain and simple, and Ambulon curled forward around Pharma in helpless inability to escape it. His vents sobbed around words he had to say: “Yes! Yes, I like it!” The electricity crackled straight down his backstruts, borderline electrocuting fragile internal tubing, and he pleaded, “Please hook us up! Please, I want it!”

Please, just _finish_ this!

“Did that sound sincere to you?” Kaon asked over his shoulder.

“Dunno.” Tesarus shrugged. “But probably not. And would you trust him if he did? I mean, c’mon. He went back on his oaths to Lord Megatron, y’know.”

“Oh **did** he?” Kaon was so surprised. Why, strip his plating and paint him pastels. A lying betrayer to the Cause? Pshaw, what were the Decepticons coming to! “You don’t say. Hmm. I just don’t see how we could possibly trust a word he says, knowing that.”

Tesarus’ smile was wide and ugly. “You could always transform and strap him in. Let you and Pharma zap him in and out at the same time -- that’ll keep him honest!”

Ambulon’s yellow optics paled right back toward white. No, no nonono!

A hand-less arm rose to clunk against the ward manager’s shoulder before gaining enough coordination to slide up and tap clumsily on his helm crest. “Idiots!” Pharma hissed. The surgeon twitched enough that his stretched cording fell down off his shoulder vent to rest against the top of Ambulon’s collar.

Whatever Vos had been about to say cut off as Pharma rolled his helm on Ambulon’s shoulder to attack the side of the smaller Autobot’s neck. Blue optics dimmed as a charge-hot mouth went for the sensitive cables that sent Ambulon shuddering involuntarily. He expertly flicked his tongue against a sensor cluster, causing a visible shiver and a strong snap of electromagnetic energy. That popped against Kaon’s fingertips, causing the blind mech to draw back slightly. Pharma smirked at the disgruntled way the electrical-modded Decepticon shook the sting out of his hand, but the surgeon hid his smug victory by tucking closer to his former employee and nuzzling into the ward manager’s neck.

Ambulon uncertainly leaned his head away, allowing him further access. Pharma sighed hot air against moistened sensors. They fired randomly as the hint of fluid intensified the small temperature difference. That difference skyrocketed when the medic leaned in to lick his own cables laid over Ambulon’s collar armor, laving his tongue along its length and nipping gently at whatever bits of Ambulon happened to be in the way as he did so.

“My dear Pharma,” Tarn’s engine purred underneath the deep bass of his voice, “what **are** you up to?”

Pharma didn’t even bother freeing his mouth. “Well,” he muttered against rapidly heating metal and a fear-sharp EM field, “since **you’re** not giving me what I need, I might as well chase an overload elsewhere.”

Stern authority struggled through the wildfire lust toasting Pharma’s higher thought processes. Sheer determination pierced the pleasure-soaked EM field and attempted to bludgeon the ward manager into following his lead. And it was insane, but Ambulon went along with it. He tipped his chin down at the urging of a wrist even as a massive tank engine roared angrily over them.

That ended in a puttered wheeze as Tarn’s optics went wide behind his mask. Five sets of cooling fans stuttered and blasted as the D.J.D. gaped.

The pretty jet’s wings flicked out wide, white and red and primary blue a shimmering invitation to touch that stood out like a sign to any scanner or naked optics that pointed in his general direction. He twisted just enough to slide downward, turbine scraping against Ambulon’s chest. Pharma’s helm turned up, however, meeting his ex-employee’s mouth coming down. The Decepticons standing above them goggled, optics (or lack thereof) drinking in the sight of Ambulon bent over the surgeon practically arched back into his lap, mouths locked together.

Except for the sound of fans running on high, nothing blocked out the soft, silvery sounds of Ambulon’s lips shifting and the tiny _riiiill_ of Pharma’s tongue moving in slow, steady plunges into the other Autobot’s mouth. Ambulon’s knees parted gradually, spreading the jet’s thrusters apart in a way that sank Pharma down toward the floor between his legs. The surgeon made a small sound, a half-swallowed word, and slithered down Ambulon’s front until he was laid out on the floor, helm held in a paint-chipped lap.

His ex-employee followed him down. It was almost a chase, lips always seeking, but Pharma pinned the other mech’s hand in the crook of his elbow and pulled, making Ambulon entire upper body bend over him.

Ambulon’s other hand pressed to Pharma’s shoulder vents, fingers entwined in the slats. Soon, they pulled free and went fumbling across a frame familiar from observation if not hands-on experience. It wasn’t like the target was hard to miss. Kaon could have hit it without outside help. Pharma’s spark glittered like a fallen star, but it bled energy on every spectrum a Cybertronian could register, and likely quite a few they hadn’t discovered yet.

“Ahnnn **ah** yes!” Pharma’s optics flared bright a moment before he offlined them. Moaning, he surged into the tentative fingers sliding around the edges of his open chest, and his body made a perfect arch from knee to where his shoulders pressed heavily into Ambulon’s thighs. He tore his lips away and turned his helm, biting his lip as his face screwed up into a grimace hiding raking pleasure. Another few fingers gliding just a little deeper, brushing over his oversensitive spark chamber itself, had him gasping quietly.

The surgeon tossed his helm the other way, mindlessly rubbing his chevron against Ambulon’s leg. “Mmn! Hm **mm!** -ta-ahh. Ah.” The hand pinned by his elbow wormed its way free and came up to pinch at the very tip of his helm crest. That combination: gentle fingers inside him, and the hard pressure applied to medical input receptors. Oh, that.

Pharma bucked, hand-less arms pawing at the floor as his shoulders jolted and his knees clattered. “ _Gleep!_ ”

The windstorm sound of heavy-duty fans working overtime howled above Ambulon’s head as five extremely interested Decepticons abruptly grouped up around him. Tarn was venting _on_ him as the menacing tank bent to watch closely. Hot air and intense, perverted lust _poured_ over him. The ward manager stiffened and kept his optics locked on Pharma’s half-hidden face, but he was sure his panic could be easily felt bleeding into his EM field.

Perhaps his tiny, scared whisp of electromagnetic energy was drowned out under the onslaught of dripping greed drooling over his plating right now. Or maybe the blooming cloud of cloying pleasure drenching anyone near Pharma served to hide Ambulon’s own EM field. It sank into his circuitry well enough, calling answering pulses from his very spark. He hoped it was doing the same to the D.J.D. watching Pharma buck and gasp. If he could hide beneath making a spectacle of his ex-boss’ overload, he certainly would.

Pharma nudged into the inside of his thigh, patrician nose nuzzling in unconscious urging, and his mouth shaped commands he could no longer vocalize. White noise crackled out of his throat instead. Ambulon swallowed his terror and repeated the careful sweep of his fingers over the spark searing his fingertips. Pharma’s wings rattle-tapped an entire orchestra’s percussion section against the floor as rapidfire pleasure echoed back over and over from every point of contact. His own chevron didn’t have the receptors needed to wireless coordinate an entire surgery theatre worth of medical equipment, but Ambulon knew where Pharma’s receptors hid. His thumb rubbed over the front of the surgeon’s chevron while his fingertips slid behind it to find and press rhythmically on them.

“ _Gleee **eep**!_ ” The jet writhed in his lap, head pushing insistently even as the deluge of pleasure became almost too much. Long legs tried to kick but only clattered uselessly against the floor. The body already bent in an arch twisted, a conflicted motion that burrowed Pharma’s helm further in Ambulon’s lap. The move managed to push that open chest up into the hand half-buried in it.

“Do that again,” Tarn ordered, a strange harmonic in his deep voice. From above, Pharma’s trembling lips had a special vulnerability to them that he’d never seen before. It was quite lovely in a way he hadn’t expected.

The traitor kneeling at his feet couldn’t stop shaking. He obeyed, of course, and the long wail of a stressed vocalizer filled the corridor again. When yellow optics dared a quick glance up, they saw Helex and Tesarus looking vaguely impressed. Vos didn’t look like he cared much, but the slimey way his EM field sought and clung to Ambulon’s trembling circuitry gave away how closely he was watching events.

The soft vulnerability of Pharma’s mouth turned into a determined grimace, and the jet lit his optics brightly to direct a glare upward. Ambulon pleaded with his own optics, but that glare went straight up to all but physically slam into the tank hovering over Ambulon’s bent head.

And then Pharma turned his head and _bit._

Ambulon transformed into a leg. He was composed of solid strutwork and support framework. He’d been built with armor shielding almost everything. However, he did have his vulnerable points, as all mechs did, and his happened to center around sheltered areas of his body: his collar near the back of his neck; the sides of his torso protected by his upper arms; the backs and inside of his thighs just under his skidplate where his legs rotated to turn that part inward during transformation. Every other part of his leg but his ankle structures could take a hit.

Pharma knew that, and his teeth clamped onto the very edge of the vulnerable area. He fragging well _dented_ him!

“Yiii!” Ambulon wouldn’t win any medals for composure under attack. He jumped where he sat and gave the most undignified yelp possible. It was more shock than pain. “What’re you -- let **go**!”

Angry, vastly aroused flight engines rip-roared defiantly back at him. Pharma deliberately licked his tongue over the part of Ambulon trapped in his mouth, and the ward manager yipped again in surprise, hands flailing over the surgeon in his lap because he didn’t have the first clue where was safe to push at, or pull, or what the frag was he supposed to do?!

Pharma’s mouth worked a bit, rearranging his grip without actually letting his ex-employee struggle loose, and then --

“ **Ow!** Stop that!”

Kaon’s greasy interest spilled down Ambulon’s side as the electric-modded Decepticon leaned close. “What is he doing, hmm?”

Mildly inquisitive could turn sadistically nasty any second now. Ambulon reset his optics rapidly, and his hands opened on empty air as indecision paralyzed him for a long moment.

Right. Well, if Pharma was going to turn the play rough, then Ambulon would make sure it was a good show.

He lunged forward, accepting the sharp sting as Pharma’s teeth dug into him, and he delivered a sharp nip to the base of the surgeon’s main interfacing cable. Long blue thighs snapped closed right in front of his optics, and the pool of pleasure surrounding Pharma like an ocean of electromagnetic energy zipped in tight and close. Ambulon’s optics narrowed. Was it like that, then? The surgeon could dish it out but couldn’t take it?

This time, he gave the cable a lick, raising up enough to start near the yellow cockpit glass and following the cording right down to the base. A healthy dose of Pharma’s own medicine would do him good. A hot, slick dose that turned to nibbles around the hook-ups and a nice strong suck to the largest connector while he tongued every filament his tongue tip could reach. There were optics burning into his back, but he did his best to concentrate on gnawing gently on the sensor-laden equipment under his nose.

Pharma’s little love-bite turned into a march of dents progressing down Ambulon’s thigh as the surgeon lost focus and balance in one. The spitting fritz of near-overload wormed out from under Pharma’s fading control once again, informing anyone who cared to sample the energy of the jet’s enjoyment. There were what might have been moans vibrating the thin metal under his teeth, and he was obsessively licking whatever he managed to keep a grip on.

The swelling hunger of the surgeon’s spark dragged hotly through metal and energon to Ambulon’s own spark, and the ward manager muffled a moan into Pharma’s cable. The vibration still thrummed down and got a response in another flare of spark energy that, once again, called strongly to his own spark. Fat, lusty curls of energy twined between them, meeting into thick melds of current that transmitted back and forth until both medics whimpered and moaned. Pharma’s amplified arousal steamrolled Ambulon’s terror, and the two separate types of energy were both high enough to turn into molten charge that fed directly into their sparks and, from there, into the shared circuit they’d created.

Ambulon’s tongue flicked and teased, spitting bolts of charge, and Pharma’s teeth circled it right back into him. They lacked a direct conduit that would channel the charge in a building circuit; without interface cables connected, there was a significant loss of energy to the floor, to the air, even to simple surface contact. What remained was still enough to send their fuel pumps racing in time with the pulse of overly excited sparks.

The D.J.D. stood over them, mouths agape and optics unable to look away as Pharma’s helm crest bobbed from underneath Ambulon, the only part of him visible between the ward manager’s thighs. The traitor had his own face buried into the jet’s interface hatch. Both medics were moving with matching urgency, shifting and grinding into each other’s mouths. The sparkle and shine of Pharma’s exposed spark did nothing but highlight the white, primary blue, and red of medical affiliation from beneath.

Tesarus’s tongue almost hung out of his mouth. “ **Hot**.” This had clearly been a brilliant idea on his part. Anyone who said otherwise had to be blind, but even Kaon’s fans were sputtering in panting rushes. Okay, so maybe dead mechs. Dead mechs might not find this hot. But only if they were rust and scrap, because anything more would still sit up, point, and demand a piece of that.

Tarn looked around at his spellbound mechs and ignored his own rampant desire for a moment. He led the Decepticon Justice Division. He was Megatron’s trusted loyalist. He was tasked with systematically and torturously eliminating traitors from the ranks, and he’d chosen the mechs in his unit to reflect commitment to Cause and cruelty.

Currently, Tesarus was hovering over the show and smiling dopily as Pharma pushed Ambulon’s knees wider in order to nip at the cables exposed between pelvic span and thigh plating. Kaon was a frozen statue, attention locked on the ship’s surveillance feed and hands limply holding two sets of interface cables that were zapping him steadily. His vents were only working sporadically when prodded by rapid overheat. Helex’s smelter boiled. Vos’ trigger clicked, loud and quick.

These mechs had served both Cause and Tarn equally well. It might be time to give them something of a reward. Tarn was dedicated to his duty, but his duty included recognizing when his unit had done more than expected. Their dedication deserved recognition. They had earned an amusement, and they did all seem to agree that they liked what they saw right now. Getting four mechs like these ones to agree on anything outside of death and destruction was difficult on the best of days, so that wasn’t an insignificant accomplishment.

It wasn’t that Ambulon would be dropped off the List, but now the leader of the D.J.D. gave some serious thought to actually honoring his pet-jet’s bargain. His mechs could have their very own berth-warmer and free show for as long as the traitor lasted, and perhaps that stain on the floor of the bridge could be bleached away if he assigned Ambulon to clean it between services. It’d be nice to make the ship a little more presentable than their obsolete drone could manage. Vos kept poaching parts off it. Tarn certainly wasn’t going to stop the scientist if he continued the trend with Ambulon, but the traitor could probably get as far as wiping the walls down before Vos stole vital internal parts. That was a good reason to keep the ex-Decepticon alive a while longer.

Not to mention that Pharma was _his_. Tarn had found himself becoming increasing possessive of his Autobot, almost jealously keeping track of what dents on the surgeon came from whom. A second toy Autobot, one that his mechs could abuse to their sparks’ content, could be a good idea.

Also, Pharma was trying to bury those weak Autobot morals of his in irate snappishness, but Tarn had picked up on them: the handless mech wanted to save his fellow Autobot. That would place his captive surgeon yet further in the D.J.D.’s debt if Tarn spared the traitor. It would give Pharma an assistant, which would be helpful as he labored over Tarn’s requirements to pay back that debt, and the burden of responsibility for keeping the ex-‘Con alive would fall on the surgeon’s wings. That would be quite entertaining in its own right.

The idea of having a living example of Lord Megatron’s displeasure to haul around on display held its appeal as well. Executions were public, but there was a vast difference between a victim seen on a screen and one confessing his crime before all and sundry. It would let Decepticons see that defecting to the Autobots offered no protection. Being paraded about while being forced to own up to his treachery would grind humiliation into Ambulon well before the pain ever started, making it all part of the torture. Anticipation was often a punishment in and of itself, and postponing the traitor’s execution until an unknown time meant it could happen _any_ time.

Besides, maybe keeping such an amusement on hand would prevent what happened last time Tesarus had gotten bored in transit. Tarn had actually thrown Pharma into the brig for a few days to cool down after the thing with the Pet. He’d been afraid the surgeon would find a way to follow through in his ranted, nigh-incoherent threats. Kaon had almost managed to wheedle permission from him to set the jet loose before Tesarus finally apologized. Not that Kaon had wanted to forgive him, but Tarn had refused to let Pharma loose to wreck vengeance after the apology.

There was sexy, and there was bored, and then there was just plain nasty. Bored living grinder plus sexy surgeon equaled nasty. Pharma had chosen fury over trauma, but not so the Pet. There was something fundamentally wrong about watching a sparkeater hide under a console.

Yeah, keeping a traitor on hand as a distraction might be the better choice.

Pharma made a low sound more engine howl than vocalizer, and Tarn’s engine gave a hiccup. There was also _that_. Yes. That was a very good reason, too.

Kaon had to override his processor to redirect some attention to his leader when Tarn spoke. “Ah…pardon?”

Tarn might have snapped something sharp in return, but right then Ambulon yanked Pharma’s thigh up and started delivering a few hard bites of his own to the inside. Pinned by his own weight from how he was bent back on the floor, the surgeon gave a muffled shriek and struggled futilely in a clatter of knees before Ambulon’s free hand snaked between interface cable and port to pinch lightly. The jet went stiff. Flight engines stalled. They turned over as the pinch turned into a firm massage.

The ambient energy in the corridor spiked. Pharma’s spark was providing a disproportionate amount of light for its size, but it _was_ being fed a considerable charge at the moment.

Whatever the tank had been about to say, it was long forgotten. Kaon’s attention was glued to the show just as fervently. The cables in his hands were being rubbed unconsciously as he drank in the charge thrilling up his arms from the two medics urgently moving together on the floor.

“Kaon.”

“Muh?”

“Cables.” The word was somewhat unintelligible before Tarn reset his vocalizer and tried again. Somehow, the tank’s own interface hatch had opened, and he was holding a cable set crackling with energy. They _ached_. “Connect their cables.”

He was already reaching for Pharma.

 

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** And that’s it for the first chapter. Uh…kind of long, but I really couldn’t find a better place in the scene to cut it off. Also: this picture. _

_****_

_See how much this is Shibara's fault? http://shibara.tumblr.com/post/36200162795/its-tesarus-and-he-wants-a-show-he-really-wants ]_


	2. Pt. 2

**Title:** Emergency Measures (2/?)  
 **Warning:** Warnings: anything and everything, because it is the Decepticon Justice Division. They specialize in torture, which I doubt was ever consensual. None of the humor in the last part, here. This was written for a specific kink.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** More Than Meets the Eye  
 **Characters:** Decepticon Justice Division, Ambulon, Pharma  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Shibara and I enabled each other in a horrible feedback loop that resulted in this.

Original Prompt:  
http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=12029184#t12029184

_"I'd like to see a mech, facing torture and death, bargain his way out through faking enthusiastic sex -pretending to want it, doing anything to not die. Actually, what I'd like to see is the aftermath, where somebody reassures the mech that it was okay to do whatever they had to for survival."_

 

**[* * * * *]**

**Part 2**

**[* * * * *]**

 

A look of great self-satisfaction curled thin lips into a smile. Cruelty radiated from the growing curve. He’d found that teaching suited him: the exacting standards, the repeated tests on comprehension and ability to apply new knowledge, and the grading of every detail. He rather enjoyed the benefits of a passing grade, but the rules he taught had a ruthless precision to them. A failing grade allowed him the ultimate pleasure of standing judgment. 

And what subject did Kaon teach today? Was he letting Ambulon lick his fingertips in a desperate attempt at repentance?

He just might be.

******

**Kaon & Ambulon by Shibara**   
******

"Is that the best you can do, traitor? Pharma should’ve taught you better, by now. Remind me to have a word with him when I’m done with you." He leaned close and listened to the exhausted, sad moan that was Ambulon acknowledging his casual instruction. He intended to boost off-duty training for the prisoner. The ex-Decepticon would indeed remind him later, if the mech knew what was good for him. The _Peaceful Tyranny_ ’s medibay held the closest thing to an ally Ambulon had on board this ship, but Pharma was a pitifully frail safe haven. If the surgeon failed to fill his charge’s few hours of rest with suitable humiliations, then the D.J.D. would gladly rescind the break periods they’d graciously permitted the poor mech. 

He was, after all, on the List. Any reprieve they granted him from the suffering was more than he deserved, and he knew it. They’d made certain he knew it. Kaon in particular had trained Ambulon in expressing his appreciation for his continued life. The blind communication mech practiced a brutal teaching method that had proven very effective in breaking any hope that might have lingered. 

Kneeling down, he braced his knee on Ambulon’s back right above where his student and prisoner had obediently clasped his hands. Those hands shook against his lower leg but stayed where they’d been ordered. Good. That lesson had been tedious to teach over and over again before Ambulon finally overcame gut-level instinct with factual knowledge: defending himself only made things worse. The pain of learning could always turn into outright tortured agony. 

Helm tilted, Kaon listened closely to the sound of ventilation fans rattling from too much use without enough maintenance. His energy field met and consumed the Autobot’s own, pulling on the faint flickers of a mech severely under-fueled and pushed far past the point of surrender. Not that Ambulon had even attempted to resist, but sometimes intelligent mechs like him simply had to have the stubborn remnants of independent thought beaten out of them. That split-second pause wherein pride and common sense warred over crawling on command was long gone, now. Pride at a job well done filled Kaon every time Ambulon followed his orders as unhesitantly as the Pet did. 

"Don't close your lips until you've properly worshiped each finger with your tongue," he instructed. The traitor’s feeble energy field fought, trying to conserve even this tiny sip of energy, but Kaon’s stronger current stole it away. Ambulon bowed his head and shuddered as Kaon stripped his circuitry down to the metal. "Did I say you could move? Ah-ah-ah, no. Take it. Open your mouth wider. Open your intake. Take it in."

Kaon wasn’t just talking about the way Ambulon’s lips stretched around his knuckles. As fast as Kaon consumed his electromagnetic charge, a revolting discharge flooded over him, returning the charge plus a large dose of greasy smugness. It sank into his circuitry and stained him down to the spark.

The Decepticon chuckled against the back of his helm as shame simmered under his armor. "Good...good. That was nice. Swallow again. A little deeper, I think.” He pushed his fingers further, and Ambulon gagged as his fuel intake seized. “Now -- again." 

Disapproval and a disturbing glee rippled over his back when Ambulon jerked his head back a couple inches, panting as he squirmed without really moving. Kaon promptly jammed his fingers back into the intake, which clenched around his fingertip. "Don't flinch away from me, traitor. Be glad you have this opportunity to prove your, hmm, better traits."

The kneeling mech went still and concentrated on breathing. Kaon liked the sound of him breathing. When fans and secondary vents weren’t enough to cool stress-heated systems, the traitor panted. It flexed his throat tubing in tiny creaks, and Kaon liked to listen to the heaving air sawing past his fingers, whistling occasionally as Ambulon’s lips moved.

"That's it. Say 'ah'. Yes...just like that. Louder."

The faintest whimper, muffled further by the three fingers stuffed into Ambulon’s mouth, but it came out clear enough. “Ahhh.”

“Louder, traitor, or I’ll make you scream instead.”

A hard swallow around fingertips, and yellow optics shut off. He knew how real that threat was. “Ahhhh!”

"Very good, traitor. Amazing what a touch of motivation can do for those of weak will. Need I motivate you more -- ah-ah, no, don't shake your head when my fingers are in your mouth." Kaon tsked and slid his hand out, wet from Ambulon’s fervent attention. “Now we're going to have to start over."

His other hand came up to grasp the back of the ex-Decepticon’s helm, some sort of vile spider whose legs were fingers digging in to dent the metal. The socket in his palm hummed with electricity, and Ambulon’s shoulders drew up in futile defense against the headache-inducing cycle that immediately began as charge swapped back and forth from palm to cerebral circuitry. The fast exchange flickered afterimages of random files behind Ambulon’s optics. His databanks blared error messages, and he reset his optics repeatedly trying to close everything that popped open. 

Kaon’s frown of disapproval for his student’s failure looked exactly like a sadistic smirk. "Are you afraid, traitor?” His hand slid down while the mech was distracted, and Ambulon stiffened in renewed fear under it. It settled where his prisoner’s chipped helm covered the main jaw mechanisms. One finger tapped idly against the corner of one wide yellow optic. “A hand on your helm is more of a threat than half my other hand in your mouth? I suppose you're right. A decent jolt straight into your processor would melt your jaw." His palm socket heated noticeably, and the battered mech shook, not daring to move away but cringing nonetheless. 

The D.J.D. specialized in torture, but toying with someone this way was exciting and new, in a strange way. Kaon was having a perverse sort of fun. He placed his lips beside his victim’s audio as if sharing an intimate secret. "You'd be useless to me, then. And you don't want to be useless, Ambulon." Using the hand on the traitor’s head, he nodded Ambulon’s head for him. "No, you don't. Good. I'm glad we agree,” whispered close and terribly amused. A strangled, pleading sound answered him, and Kaon stroked the side of Ambulon’s helm in a parody of comfort. “Shh, shh. I know you'd nod even if I didn't make you, because, well, the alternative...you don't want that. Do you?"

Instant, quiet agreement from behind closed lips. The master of electricity waited, but Ambulon stayed perfectly still but for the quivering he couldn’t control. That insolent, lying mouth remained shut against any traitorous -- or annoying, because the Decepticons on board had heard it all before and their latest victim wasn’t getting any more original the longer they dragged this out -- words that might leak out. His hands tightened around each other but otherwise stayed exactly where ordered: folded together at the small of his back. 

"You **have** learned." Kaon’s approval came in a surge of electromagnetic energy that violated his student inside-out. 

More muted agreement, although it came out in short, tearing vents that shook the Autobot’s upper body in panting bursts.

The gentle stroking stopped in a condescending pat to the top of Ambulon’s helm, the same petting Kaon used on the Pet after the spark-eater got a trick right. "Then you know your lessons.” His other hand stopped kneading the shaking mech’s throat and spread in front of Ambulon’s face instead. “What's Lesson One, traitor?"

He couldn’t risk turning off his optics, because Vos had threatened them, early on. If he didn’t use his optics then he obviously didn’t need them. Vision could be recategorized as nonessential if he didn’t use it, and Pharma’s bargain only saved him inside the strict rules set on his behavior. Ambulon watched, or he lost his ability to see, perhaps via gouging or drips of acid or something more frightening yet. 

So he kept his optics online as his lips sought Kaon’s hand, and Kaon delighted in that. "That's right. From my hands come your salvation, and you should praise them accordingly. Every finger.” Ambulon winced when his teacher, instructor, _torturer_ ’s voice went sharp. “I said every one. Kiss them, traitor."

Ambulon’s spark pulsed revulsion along his wires, generator a twisting churn of self-hate and terror, but he kissed every one of Kaon’s fingers. His lips sought the inside of every knuckle, the friction pads on the ends, and cautiously kissed around the base of the open socket in the palm. The hand turned over, presenting the back, and scummy satisfaction seeped into his struts from behind as Kaon whispered into his audio, "Again."

He had to pause a bare second to gather the willpower to continue. He had to do it. Just a second’s rest to collect himself, please. His head swam from the stronger electrical current pressing into his wires, cycling his weaker energy out and pressing Kaon’s tainted charge in. He couldn’t concentrate.

“I gave you an order.” The reprimand snapped over him for hesitating. The skittering jolt of electricity accompanying it hurt worse than a whiplash would have. "I don't think you quite understand what I'm sparing you from -- ah, there we go. Much better." Ambulon vented hard and showered kisses across the back of Kaon’s hand. No perfunctory pecks that mashed his lips to plating, of course not, because that wouldn’t show sincerity. Every kiss pressed to a separate spot, lips moving down the backs of the fingers to cover them in devoted adulation.

Kaon leisurely turned his hand this way and that, directing Ambulon with slight motions of his thumb, a curl of his forefinger. He reveled in how easily the traitor bent to the task. The training was going well. "Shall we move on to Lesson Two?” he breathed against his student’s helm. “Remind me what it is. Show me how well you've learned your lessons."

Ambulon made a conflicted noise of despair and nausea, but his chin dipped a tad as he extended his tongue. It replaced his lips, drawing swathes of hot contact across the back of Kaon’s hand. The coating of energy left behind on the surface of the metal tingled. Kaon’s circuitry drank in Ambulon’s utter loathing. 

"Slower. Slower! Just like that,” the Decepticon crooned, savoring the feeling. “Display your gratitude for me. I'm sure you're quite a pretty sight, but my viewing pleasure, as it is, comes from touch.” He turned his hand upward and opened the fingers expectantly. A violent shudder went up his student’s back, but that tongue obediently began pampering the inside of his wrist. "Little cyberkitten licks don't move my sympathies in the least, traitor. Long and slow, long and...slow. Good. Now the fingers. Start in the palm and go the tip. Sincerity is sensation." His voice made it a sickly sweet, trite saying, something out of a self-help manual about the long road to forgiveness.

"Mm. Yes.” No reluctance, not even a moment of second thought. Ambulon laved his fingers one right after another, over and over, like the sweetest submissive pleasure drone. The hand on the traitor’s helm shifted, thumb stroking the back. The gesture had a kind of absentminded affection to it. Kaon did approve of his toys serving their function well, and this victim’s function was ‘entertainment.’ 

“Perhaps you're ready to graduate to Lesson Three. What do you think?"

Ambulon had learned. He made a neutral sound instead of moving his head without permission. The open electrical socket burning into the side of his helm was warning enough not to do that again. He didn’t even think about stopping his licking. That would continue until Kaon deigned to tell him to stop.

"Very well.” Charge crackled down Kaon’s coils as he pulled his hand away at last. 

Ambulon’s fans rattled loudly when the shock hit his armor and absorbed into his systems. It reeked of the Decepticon’s amusement.

Kaon laughed quietly and presented his hand again. “And what is Lesson Three? I have spared you. You are grateful. And..?"

Ambulon failed to swallow, fear-stiffened tubing and rigid cables creaking as paralyzed intakes clenched instead of opening. He coughed when the pressure had to go somewhere, and he licked his teeth. Then trembling lips parted. "Ahhh."

Fingers slid in to lay over his tongue, and it lapped them in. It slicked between and under them as if Ambulon truly welcomed Kaon using him. "That's right. And you adore me. You worship me. I am your salvation and your god, and you will not forget the fact that pleasing me is your new purpose in life," murmured the Decepticon. He crooked his fingers and dragged the tips across Ambulon’s tongue. It moved under them, rippling in a clumsy attempt to pull them in further as it’d been taught. "A smaller goal than the Cause, but you've already failed to live up to Lord Megatron's expectations. Well, perhaps aiming a bit lower may give you a second chance. You want that second chance, yes?”

Ambulon gurgled assent and accidentally closed his lips around the invading fingers while trying to maneuver them into a better spot to lick at. "I said not to close your lips.” They gaped open, and the kneeling mech made a meek, apologetic noise around them. “That sound...hmm. No, I've changed my mind."

Kaon rotated his wrist and thrust his fingers in to the third knuckle. "You may suck, now." 

Tentative, Ambulon sealed his mouth on the fingers and gave them a small suck. They’d just ventured into new territory, continuing the lesson past where he’d failed last time, and he knew to do nothing without explicit instructions. At the same time, he had to have enough initiative to convince the Decepticon that he wanted this. It was an impossible contradiction to resolve. 

Fortunately, or perhaps not, Kaon intended to teach him exactly what to do. "Start gentle,” he instructed, and the queasy flare of gratitude through the traitor’s EM field made his gloating smile widen. Ambulon suckled, cheeks hollowing as he slid his mouth up and down Kaon’s fingers in long, slow pulls. “Care for my fingers as you would a sacred object. Too rough, and I may feel that you're not showing me proper respect." The sucking gentled further, now barely a tugging pressure. 

Kaon pushed the traitor’s head forward, suddenly stern. "Have you forgotten how to use your tongue, Ambulon? You act as though you don't want to -- mmm.” Shoulders hunching defensively, Ambulon concentrated every speck of attention on the fingers in his mouth. Kaon sighed in satisfaction and let him work uninterrupted. “Like that. I like that." 

Now that Ambulon knew what his tormentor wanted, the sucking picked up. His tongue slid up the underside of each finger as he drew back, and then he ducked his head fractionally to take them in again. Kaon drummed his fingers on the side of the traitor’s chipped helm. Even without optics, his critical gaze could practically be felt evaluating Ambulon’s performance.

"Your tongue is surprisingly talented. It's why I spared you your tongue being torn out, did you know that? Vos had it pulled out of your mouth for the rest of us to discuss, and I thought that something so soft could be put the right use if trained." Ambulon redoubled his efforts. "Heh. You have learned to take your cues. Good. Between the fingers, more. Push against the tips." He fell silent for a moment. "Now -- deep. And swallow.”

His intake squeezed shut against the fingertips probing it, but Ambulon tried to obey. He managed a weak flutter as the intake gave a spasm. 

Kaon frowned. “Again.” The traitor attempted to swallow again. It didn’t work any better this time. Kaon hissed displeasure and dug his fingers into the back of Ambulon’s tongue. “Open your intake, or I'll rip it out."

The intake squeezed tighter despite Ambulon’s open-mouthed panting, the ex-Decepticon gulping air in a frantic bid to force the intake open as ordered. Fear overwhelmed his body, however, and it stayed shut.

"...and we were making such progress, too." Shaking his head, Kaon slowly leaned back in preparation to stand. The hands clasped at the mall of Ambulon’s back grabbed after him, and an evil smirk grew on his face. The traitor knew what was coming. It was unwise to spurn favor from a member of the Justice Division, especially not when a mech was on the List. The enjoyment Kaon found in teaching him his place spared him far crueler tortures.

A panicked whine came out as Ambulon mouthed after the fingers withdrawing from his mouth, slow and taunting.

"Hush,” Kaon said. “A god punishes those who sin against him, and you have already fallen from grace, traitor. Your punishment is long overdue."

Too desperate to think better of it, Ambulon whipped his head around, chasing after his instructor’s hand. His teeth closed on the second knuckle of the middle finger. Licking, sucking, trying not to beg out loud -- he _must not_ speak! -- he whimpered and did his absolute best to demonstrate how much he’d been taught. 

Kaon shook off the clamped teeth but did nothing to stop him from nipping at his other fingers. "I suppose..." He turned his hand, hollow optic sockets set in a distant stare over Ambulon’s shoulder as kisses rained down the length of his forefinger and a tongue ran back up it. Lips nibbled over the friction pad of his thumb before the Autobot risked lapping at the tips of his first three fingers, coaxing them back into his mouth. "How unexpected. Tarn will be interested in this eagerness," Kaon mused, and the nonstop fear crawling under Ambulon’s armor chilled the very air around him. Kaon laughed softly at it. 

Involving the leader of the D.J.D. in the training sessions never ended well. Tarn had no patience for anything but furthering the traitor’s anguish. He indulged his unit and used Ambulon to control his pet jet, but he remained aloof from the _Peaceful Tyranny_ ’s temporary slave-prisoner. Ambulon stayed alive and mostly intact by his sufferance alone. Anytime Tarn entered the medibay to speak with Pharma, the former ward manager hid under equipment or hastily left to find a berth to warm, desperate to be seen as useful or at least pleasing. He lived in terror that he’d be noticed by the tank. 

Kaon’s fingers scissored in Ambulon’s mouth, and the ex-Decepticon dared closing his teeth enough to hold them still while he swirled his tongue around the tips. "You tread a dangerous line, using your teeth like that.” The warning growled in his audio, underlaid by the dangerous hum of charging electrical coils. Even though his helm didn’t move, nervous yellow optics looked to the side, optic frames straining as they widened too far. Just beyond peripheral vision, a nasty smile curved Kaon’s lips. He could feel the uptick in an already rapid fuelpump rhythm. “You are very, very lucky I like a little pressure on my knuckles."

Relief stole the strength terror had lent him, and Ambulon slumped slightly as tension transmuted to relief. He straightened up in a hurry when Kaon continued thoughtfully, "But you deserve some form of admonishment for that reluctance."

Dread iced up the bottom of his tanks. His tongue licked and traced along Kaon’s fingers, begging without speaking, but the dark, static purr of a massive electrical generator buzzed louder in response. "Don't make me choose for you, traitor. It's Tesarus’ turn with you after your lessons today, and if you haven't learned them to my satisfaction, you won't enjoy how he disciplines you."

Ambulon’s choked sound of despair could barely be heard. He sucked hard on the fingers in his mouth, teeth scraping the knuckles, before pushing them out with his tongue. The increased power output behind him poured into his own energy field, and Kaon’s amusement collided with his fear in a cable-crimping boil over his spark. They both knew what was coming. 

When Kaon turned his hand up, the Autobot nuzzled into his palm and sobbed because he already knew this agony.

"A wise choice," Kaon said, venting against the back of his helm and making him cringe lower. “Lesson One. Your punishment is your salvation."

He knew it’d hurt, but Ambulon kissed along the base of the electrical socket in the center of Kaon’s hand. Cranking his generator up made the blind mech’s coils spit sparks, and even the lightest butterfly kisses stung Ambulon’s lips as the thin socket rim heated up and burnt him. The metal of his face numbed oddly, the sensors underneath resetting out of confusion from the repeated jolts of pain.

“Lesson Two. You are grateful to be spared.”

Primus save him, he had to do more. The pain intensified, but he forced himself to extend his tongue and lick around the circumference of the socket rim. The built-up charge transmitted in a jolting surge, and his teeth rattled from the shock. He electrocuted again and again, electricity zapping through him from the mouth inward. His air filters crisped. His intakes seized. His throat tubing began to melt where they touched the cables in his neck. His cerebral circuitry screamed overheat warnings on his HUD, circuit breakers threatening to trip and drop him into statis lock. He scrambled to override them, because _nothing_ would guarantee harsher future punishment like falling unconscious to escape the current torture. 

"I'm waiting." The hand he’d involuntarily shrank back from pushed into his face. 

Panting fast, every circuit screaming that he didn't want to, don't do it, Ambulon whimpered a wordless apology and struggled to open his mouth once more. It hurt, but he quickly licked around the rest of the socket rim. The surface of his tongue blistered, metal melting, and his shoulders contorted as he fought to keep his hands clasped.

The pained noise he couldn’t stifle got an approving pat on his helm. "Well done. And Lesson Three.” The hand before his face stretched, offering the socket. “Give your savior and personal god what he's due, Ambulon." For a fraction of a second, the polite tone of a tutor vanished to reveal the hungry sadist lurking underneath. Kaon was, and always had been, a devout member of the Justice Division. “Sacrifice. Appeasement.”

“Worship me, traitor.”

Ambulon’s throat worked as he stared at that hand, but he knew his place, now. He’d learned Kaon’s lessons by spark. This was his punishment for failing his instructor’s expectations, but it also served to test how well he could apply what he’d been taught.

Gagging on terror, already wincing, he fit his mouth to the socket and kissed it: deeply, passionately, tongue plunging in deep to invite the white lightning in. It streamed into his mouth like molten metal pouring from a crucible. Agony ran blazing trails along every wire and cable, crackling bolts of electricity snapping and sparking over his armor, through internal systems, until he shrieked into the socket. His hands knotted together, yanking against each other behind himself because he couldn’t relax his fingers. His joints smoked, his vision swam, but Kaon’s hand mercifully pulled away at long last.

Ambulon puddled to the floor, strutless and hitching as his ventilation system tried to restart stalled fans. Erratic gasps rasped in huge, coughing breaths that exhaled ash from his filters and seemed to do nothing to cool his overheated body. Forehelm against the floor, he groaned when a reminder pinged him. Orders. He’d been given orders. 

Painfully slow, the ex-Decepticon inched back to sit on his heels. He had to brace his hands against the floor in order to push himself upright, and he swayed dizzily for a minute. His systems labored. Low-fuel warnings and, well, low-everything warnings bleated in his CUP. He dismissed them. He couldn’t do anything about them.

When he was fairly sure he could sit up on his own, he pulled his hands off the floor. They shook as he put them behind himself and fumbled until he could clasp them together. Then he picked a point on the ground and stared at it, willing himself to endure. 

“Much, much better.” The mech listening to his efforts passed judgment, and Ambulon couldn’t even pretend he didn’t lean into the good-pet pat on his helm. Self-hate and relief mixed into a thick slurry of shame under his spark.

Kaon stroked his helm and sighed in a fine mockery of sympathy. "If only you'd taken orders this well when you were still one of the Decepticons. Too bad, eh? You wouldn't be in this position, now would you?” He bent close to taking in the scent of smoldering wire insulation and justice. It was a familiar smell. “Do you regret your betrayal yet, Ambulon?"

A lost, broken little sound that might have been an affirmative.

“Not as much as you will. But that’s a lesson you’ve yet to learn.” A look of great self-satisfaction curled thin lips into a smile. He would teach the traitor true repentance.

Eventually. “For now…let’s start again.”

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
